I_Speak_For_Myself

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OF CANADA, LIMITED

AN EDITOR IN HIS WORLD

With a Prefatory Note
By William Lyon Phelps

- 1940
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1940, by
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

All rights reserved no part of this book
may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publisher,
except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief
passages in connection with a review written
for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.

FIRST PRINTING.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
AMERICAN BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK

To MY WIFE
EVELYN TORREY EDGETT

Prefatory Note

BY WILLIAM LYON PHELPS

DURING THE YEAR that I had the honour of being a member
of the English Faculty at Harvard, 1891-1892, I had the
pleasure of teaching sections of each of the four under-
graduate classes in the College. In the large group of Sopho-
mores of the Class of 1894, whom I endeavoured to teach
I certainly succeeded in learning a good deal I gave out only
two highest marks (A) in English Composition. It has always
been a source of gratification to me that the two recipients
were Lindsay Todd Damon and Edwin Francis Edgett; the
former became the scholarly Professor of English at Brown
University, and the latter spent nearly all his life as a pro-
fessional literary and dramatic critic on the Boston Evening
Transcript.

I used to criticise Edgett's themes; I now have before me
the printed pages of his book. I am very glad the publishers
persuaded him to write it (I know by experience that Mr.
Harold Latham is a persuasive conversationalist). I find the
book interesting from beginning to end: because the author's
life as a professional journalist seems never to have had a dull
day, and because he tells the story with zest and candour.

The book is well named I Speak for Myself. Its writer has
strong convictions, some of them exceedingly unpopular, and

vii

viii Prefatory Note

he takes delight in expressing them in a definite and uncom-
promising fashion. I can read with my mind's eye the violent
and even abusive letters he will receive; but opposition has
never troubled him. And for the majority of his opinions he
should receive praise from many different classes of people.

He is an illustration of one of my most ardent faiths that
in mature years nothing is more exciting than a congenial
routine. Children and dogs are happiest when something
unusual happens, when there is a break in daily habits. It is
just the opposite with those who have found a career where
choice and ability harmonise. Mr. Edgett loved national
holidays because then he could work at the regular task with-
out fear of interruption.

In this book he has made even the smallest details of his
daily newspaper work interesting. I suppose it is because
everything connected with it interested him. His career as
Literary Editor, as Dramatic Critic, not only gave him oppor-
tunities to say in print what was in his mind, but made him
an enormously valuable member of society; for his discussions
of books and plays were sincere and luminous. He pleased
and stimulated many thousands of readers. And when for
some years he discussed books over the radio, the response
was so immediate and so widespread that I wonder why the
educational experts in the broadcasting companies do not
employ him now.

The letters he prints from famous authors are valuable
contributions. But the real charm of these pages comes from
the man himself; from his absolute honesty, from the range
of his knowledge, from his ability to express his opinions and
convictions with clearness. I can easily see how some readers
will be angry and will violently dissent; but I don't see how
any reader could possibly misunderstand him.

YALE UNIVERSITY
30 July 1940

Introduction

THIS BOOK is to me more than a surprise. It is an astonish-
ment. When it was suggested, I was struck with amazement
at the idea that anyone would want to read the story of my
life. More than five years ago Harold S. Latham, vice presi-
dent of The Macmillan Company, whom I have known for a
long time through correspondence and occasional visits, asked
me as he was leaving my office one day this unexpected ques-
tion: "When are you going to let us see the manuscript of
your autobiography?" I could scarcely speak, and the most I
could say was to thank him for the inquiry, and then thrust
aside the idea as if it were of no importance to myself or any-
one else.

Apparently Mr. Latham was not discouraged, for he re-
peated the question whenever he saw me. Last year I suc-
cumbed and told him I would make a beginning at such a
book, although I had no belief that it would amount to any-
thing. For many weeks I worked on it in a desultory fashion,
and then I found that I had accumulated about eighty type-
written pages. These I sent to him, at his request, with the
thought that that would be the end of my story; but it was
the beginning and not the end. I was emboldened by him to
complete the manuscript, and it finally reached its present
length of four times the original.

x Introduction

What its fate will be with the public I cannot foresee;
nor can anyone foresee the fate of this book, or any other
book. But here it is, to take its place in the unending proces-
sion of books. As will be seen, its pages contain my frank
statement of what has happened to me in mind and soul and
body through many years. It is intended to be a record of
and commentary upon myself, my thoughts and beliefs, as
well as a chronicle of events that have been a part of my life
during all its successive stages. While it is long enough, per-
haps too long, it might have been double the length, and
even then I would not have told half my story; but it should
be made no longer for the sake of both my readers and
myself.

The record goes along all my years from birth to the pres-
ent day. Although I have never travelled much, I have
travelled far, always in the haunts of man. The story centres
in Boston, where I was born. It carries me to London for
about a year, and then it brings me back to my own country,
to New York and Philadelphia and St. Louis, in the course
of a tour not for recreation, but as a means for earning my
living which seems to have been my chief object in life up
to about two years ago. At last I returned to Boston for good
and all. There the greater part of my life has been spent, for
with brief interruptions I was more than forty years on the
editorial staff of the Boston Evening Transcript.

I have naturally much to say about my Transcript work,
first as its dramatic editor and then as its literary editor, about
the place and my companions there. Nobody who has worked
on that newspaper can rid himself of the impression that he
has been a factor in the making and progress of what was
an extraordinary institution of national reputation as well as
of local importance and influence.

This is the story, as the title page reads, of "an editor in
his world." There is much more in it, however, for it deals
with my connections with theatres, not as an actor, but as a

Introduction xi

worker in their publicity and business interests, all of which
I carried on simultaneously with and incidentally to my
Transcript labors. It is reminiscent of my acquaintance with
many people of the stagenotably with David Belasco, Henry
Jewett, John Craig, and James K. Hackett (all of them dead
and gone, alas!); and there is much in its pages of authors
and their booksCharles Dickens, Anthony Trollope, George
Gissing, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, etc. of books them-
selves, of my letters from Arnold Bennett, Sinclair Lewis,
Eden Phillpotts, Mrs. Belloc Lowndes, A. S. M. Hutchinson,
Christopher Morley, William Lyon Phelps, Charles Townsend
Copeland, Houdini, Booth Tarkington, and others of emi-
nence in and out of the literary world.

It is, of course, no less reminiscent of myself. It contains
the names, and something about the personalities of hun-
dreds of human beings, known and unknown to the world
at large, in all their varying walks of life. However it may be
described by its readers, it cannot be said that the story lacks
diversity, or that it fails to exemplify the truth of its title,
"I Speak for Myself."

E. F. E.
September, 1940

I SPEAK FOR MYSELF

Where Was I Born?

UNLESS THE WRITER of autobiography or reminiscences is a
slave to the passion for novelty or originality (which too often
fails of its purpose), he should reveal at the outset the place
and date of his birth. These set the scene for the drama he is
about to present, and enable him to face his audience the
moment the curtain is rung up for his first appearance on his
stage. Thereby he discloses himself before the footlights in
the first act of a play that is likely to be not wholly a comedy
or a tragedy, but a combination of both, with now and then
the possibility of an element of farce.

Strange to say, it is difficult for me to identify my birth-
place. Was ever man in such a dilemma? To be sure, I was
born in Massachusetts, but was it in Roxbury or in Boston?
What, it may sensibly be asked, is the reason for this puzzle,
this enigma, this doubt, or whatever it may be called? The
difficulty is due to the fact that Boston through all the years
from 1630 to 1940 has had the continuous ambition to en-
large itself, characteristic of many American cities.

Roxbury, then and now a suburb of Boston, was on Janu-
ary 12, 1867, a city under its own local rule, with a mayor, a
board of aldermen, and all the rest of the customary mu-
nicipal paraphernalia. A few months after I was born it be-
came an integral part of the city of Boston, thereby attaining

2 I Speak for Myself

a distinction that at intervals has also been gained by other
outlying districts of the capital city of Massachusetts. There
was an epidemic of annexation especially prevalent in those
bygone years when four or five suburbs were simultaneously
taken under its sheltering governmental wing.

Hence this mystery about the place of my birth, a mystery
doubtless shared by other Bostonians of my time, although I
happen never to have met any of them. I repeat the question:
Was I born in Roxbury, or was I born in Boston? I may say at
one moment that my birthplace was Boston, and at another
that it was Roxbury; and while I may seem to be inconsistent
or inaccurate, I shall be telling the truth, either way. On the
whole, I prefer to call myself a Bostonian, even if I have not
always lived within its present borders.

One thing is certain, however, since I am inclined to
accept the word of my father and mother that my awakening
to the fact of my existence was on a definite date: I do know
where to place myself on the calendar. It was, as I have said,
the twelfth day of January, 1867. Unlike too many others, I
do not hesitate to reveal the day, the month and the year of
my birth. Nor am I at all reluctant to acknowledge that it
was a long time ago, away back in the dim past of the nine-
teenth century so far indeed that, as I looked forward during
my boyhood towards the years to come, I felt I could not
possibly survive to reach on January 12, 1901, the great age
of thirty-four at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Some of my contemporaries who were born in the late six-
ties or the early seventies may remember that legendary per-
sonage known as Mother Shipton who was reported to have
foretold the day when "carriages without horses will go/' and
also to have predicted that "the world to an end shall come
in 1881." In the first of these portents she was certainly
right; but the second was a reckless leap into the dark abysses
of prophecy. The Millerites, a branch of the Second Ad-
ventists, had years before taken the same venturesome look

Where Was I Born? 3

into futurity, only to meet with the laughter and derision of
their antagonists when the eventful day passed without catas-
trophe. With no thought of Mother Shipton's imperfect
rhyme, or the confusion of her use of "will" and "shall," but
with a keen juvenile fear of something untoward to come
before I was many years older, I naturally rejoiced when the
last day of 1881 carried the world safely on its journey around
the sun. No doubt there were other youngsters who shared
with me that satisfactory assurance against what they thought
was an impending terrestrial disaster.

2

Where I Was Not Born

MY MEMORIES extend also to the house where I was born, al-
though I left it at the age of less than three years, before I can
remember anything. I have seen that house many times since,
for surprising as it may seem in these days of restless change,
it is still standing in Roxbury, only a few miles away on the
other side of Boston from where I am now living, in Arling-
ton (which is not a part of the great city). Arlington was once
a section of Cambridge, first under its Indian name of Menot-
omy, and later as West Cambridge. Finally its name was
altered to its present designation, probably because that
sounded well, much better than Menotomy, which with its
resemblance to "monotony" would have subjected its resi-
dents to many more or less merry jests. Arlington still retains
its town government despite the fact that its population has
reached the high mark of almost 40,000, and has taken upon
itself a bustling citified air, with its acres of market gardens
cut up into small and crowded building lots upon which new
houses arise almost overnight.

I rejoice to add that Arlington is the town where I have
passed some of the happiest days of my life, with my wife, to
whom I was married in 1896, about two years after the end
of our schooling at Harvard and Wellesley. Those years in
Arlington now compass more than thirty-five. Prior to that I

4

Where I Was Not Born 5

had dwelt in Roxbury, Boston proper, Dorchester, Cam-
bridge, Somerville, London, New York, Medford, and Brook-
linecertainly a notable itinerary through the passing of the
years. But I still consider myself a native and resident of Bos-
ton, as do a multitude of others who have not always had
their homes within its municipal confines. As a matter of fact,
if all the Boston suburban cities and towns two of which,
Cambridge and Somerville, have each a population of over
one hundred thousand were joined to the greater city in the
manner of so many outlying districts of New York or Chicago,
it would number about a million and a half inhabitants.

My birth was before the days when practically all babies
were condemned to be born in hospitals, yet in spite of that
supposed handicapfor we are told that hospital births are
likely to be especially beneficial to both mothers and chil-
dren I have managed to live comfortably all these seventy-
three years. It may be of no importance to anyone but myself,
but, despite this reputed natal disadvantage, I have never
had a serious illness in my life. Human beings live longer
now, so statisticians tell us, than in any recorded epoch of
world history (I am not thinking of the legendary Methuselah
or other Biblical heroes), and perhaps hospitals are responsi-
ble for that state of affairs. The doctors at least are happier,
for it is easier for them to go to a hospital when they are sum-
moned in the dead of night upon a sudden but not unex-
pected call. But now, so far has the world progressed, the
telephone does the work of the once fleet-footed messenger
who was forced, in the phrase of long ago, "to run for the
doctor." And speaking of hospitals, I am glad to say that I
have never been in a hospital, except as a visitor, and even
then not often. I have such a dislike and dread of them that
I know my chances of recovery would be lessened if I were
forced to lie in bed within their doors, even if compelled to
submit to the ministrations of the most gracious nurse.

3

In Suburban Boston

HERE I AM, therefore, after having been born, seated at this
moment before my typewriter something also that was un-
known until long after my birth and now adding the role of
autobiographer to the other characters I have played on the
stage of my life; but I have not been able, like the actor, to
recover my part in this reminiscent undertaking by the aid of
the midnight oil, gaslight or electricity, and am now forced,
without the help of a diary, and with only limited notes
and casual memoranda, to summon the past out of the
fathomless wells of my memory. Fortunately, I have preserved
many letters received from men and women of literature and
the theatre, and some of them will appear in my later pages.
The Boston of my youth, or rather the suburb of Boston
known as Roxbury, was an interesting place for a boy to
grow up in, much more attractive and less crowded than it
is today. At that time, it was really a country town, even
although closely joined to Boston. It was impossible to tell,
so closely built were its streets, where one city became the
other; but its outlying districts had a rural air, with gardens,
farms and estates that seemed to be many miles away from
its urban edges. Yet I lived only three-quarters of an hour
from town by horse-drawn carriages, wagons or street cars.
Boston had no elevated railroads or subways then, and the

6

In Suburban Boston 7

automobile was not to come for more than a quarter of a
century. Many of us are old-fashioned enough to think those
less speedy days were preferable to these, when everybody
seems to be constantly on the move, and garages are as com-
mon as houses.

Roxbury is very hilly, as are also some of the other Boston
suburbs, and my journeys to and from school and church (the
latter a subject I shall take up later) were along the ascent
and descent of a street upon which ran those now outmoded
yet picturesque vehicles known as horse cars. This street went
by easy stages from the foot of a hill now the centre of the
bustling Dudley Street station of the elevated and subway
transportation system of Boston, by which the traveller goes
rapidly on a ten-minute journey between Roxbury and the
heart of the great city.

Even two horses were not considered powerful enough to
draw a car up Warren Street at its longest and steepest in-
clines, extra traction being provided by a tow horse attended
by a boy who hitched the animal to a ring on the forward end
of the car beside his two equine companions. When the top
of the ascent was reached, the horse was unfastened and im-
mediately descended to his starting place, where with the boy
he awaited the next car that needed his aid. This would hap-
pen several times during the journey between Dudley Street
and Grove Hall, the terminus of the horse-car line. Every-
thing beyond this was more country than suburb. It was
great sport to watch this odd proceeding, although I doubt if
any boy had a thought of its help to the horses.

These old-time horse cars were short, open in summer with
transverse seats, and closed in winter with the seats along the
sides. Some of the open cars, known as double-deckers, were
two-storied, thus giving to the passengers a wider view of the
surrounding country and the scenery along the way. Years
later, when we went to London to live for a short time, I
found there the same two-storied means of conveyance both

8 / Speak for Myself

summer and winter, but by means of horse-drawn buses now
replaced by motor. In the winter, these Roxbury horse-car
passengers were supposed to be made especially comfortable
by straw scattered over the floor. It was intended to keep the
feet warm, but as may be readily imagined it was a damp,
disagreeable and noisome mess on a wet day. The drivers, be
it noted, stood on an open platform throughout the year,
and were subjected directly to the effects of all the winds and
storms that blew from the four quarters of heaven.

Long years were to pass before these servants of the corpora-
tions and the public were permitted to stand on a glass-
protected indoor platform, with the doors, the motive power,
and the brake-control all operated by electricity through a
slight touch of the driver's hand instead of a forceful push
or pull. His work is less now in energy and time, and his
wages are higher, although the too common attitude towards
it, fostered by labor unionism, is that he is still oppressed and
downtrodden. Since the company that operated these Rox-
bury cars was known as the Highland Street Railway Com-
pany (there had been a foolish and futile attempt to change
the name of Roxbury to Boston Highlands) the cars were
painted with plaid designs imitating the insignia of the Scot-
tish clans, but somewhat inconsistently such Indian names as
Shawmut, Pequot, Sachem and Massasoit were painted upon
their sides in brilliant colored lettering.

The Edgetts and the Prays

ALL THIS is of course but a fragment of my boyhood recol-
lections of Roxbury. In fact, all my memories of my early
years are very meagre. I am often amazed, and somewhat
incredulous, when I am told by grown-ups of occurrences at
the time they were scarcely more than infants. I myself have
little remembrance of anything that happened to me before I
was nine or ten, except of the summers we spent in New
Hampshire. Even then I suspect that that portion of my past
comes mainly to my mind from what I was told about it
afterwards. And so must it be with others.

After the customary era of primary, grammar and high
school in and around Boston (for the scene of my education
was changed hither and thither), the dawn of my future
loomed above the horizon. For a time I stood with the hesi-
tant feet of youth trying to decide whither I would walk in
my grown-up life. But as I lingered at the crossroads, I
looked towards the vista of a congenial profession. I was not
one of those young men who were willing to accept whatever
chance might set before them. I was not content simply to
earn my living. I would not be satisfied with anything. I
had no inclination towards business, and no desire to follow
my father in his building trade, although I have nothing but
the pleasantest recollections of the days when I sat beside him

9

io I Speak for Myself

in the horse-drawn wagon that enabled him to get from one
to another bit of construction.

I also remember many rides, with my mother and sister to-
gether on the back seat of the carriagenot a buggy, but the
variety of pleasure vehicle known as a carryall and I with
my father on the front seat as he held the reins. We would
journey through the suburbs and out into the country, tak-
ing frequent trips from Roxbury across Brookline to see our
relatives in Cambridge. Those rides filled a much longer time
then than they would now, when by motor car it is only a
half-hour or less. For a while during my infancy and early
childhood my father was very successful in his undertakings,
and we were able to pass our vacations amid the White Moun-
tains, where we spent many happy days looking at the Old
Man of the Mountain, or "the Great Stone Face," as Haw-
thorne calls it, the Flume, Echo Lake, Franconia Notch, and
the other scenic attractions of that beautiful region. Years
later I was with my wife to visit and make close acquaintance
with another and equally picturesque section of New Hamp-
shire: Mount Monadnock and its near-by scenes.

In the midst of my early youth, when my father was over
forty, his business went sadly awry, and his prosperity never
returned, for although a capable man, he had no aptitude for
the making of money. He had come from New Brunswick in
early life with his mother, sisters and brothers (his father
died long before I was born) first to Eastport, Maine, and
therefrom to make their home in Boston. The greater num-
ber of these relatives lived in East Boston, but my branch of
the family made Roxbury their haven, and my uncle Isaac
and his family chose Beverly for their home. Another uncle,
captain of a merchant vessel who was lost at sea, and whom I
never knew, has descendants living in Michigan, a state I
myself have never visited.

Off and on in the shipping news in the daily newspapers I
see a report of a vessel or of a sea captain bearing the name of

The Edgetts and the Prays 1 1

Edgett. All these members of the Edgett family were de-
scended from two brothers, Joel and John Edgett, who had
migrated to New Brunswick from New York shortly after
the Revolution. They were Tories, otherwise more respect-
fully known as Loyalists, and I have many relatives remaining
in New Brunswick who are of course still British subjects.
With none of these have I any personal acquaintance, I am
sorry to say. There are also Edgetts in central New York state,
and I have discovered during my not very assiduous genealog-
ical researches that there is an Edgett Street in the Pennsyl-
vania town of Bradford. I have only a few near relatives, all
of them cousins, on either side of my family.

My mother was also of Canadian birth, although not of
Canadian ancestry, but she and my father did not meet until
they came to Boston. She was born in the little town of Bed-
ford in the Province of Quebec, not far from the Vermont
border. The family lived at one time and another on both
sides of the border, and once, so my mother told me, her
father had a house and country store exactly on the inter-
national line, making it necessary for him to keep his Ameri-
can goods on one side of the building, and the Canadian
goods on the other, in order to avoid trouble with the cus-
toms authorities. What could have happened to the customers
when they left the store, I fail to see.

It may be that this dominant British ancestry is one reason
why I have always been prepossessed in favor of England
during her many national and international difficulties. No
matter what the quarrel was about, or what other nation it
was with, I have always wanted Great Britain to win. In
these days when the structure of our country is being under-
mined by dictatorial administrative hands, and by arbitrary
labor unionism, I feel that it would be better for us and the
world if this stricken land of ours had never been severed
from its mother country. At any rate, and no one can take it
away from us, we are of English heritage, and we speak the

12 / Speak for Myself

English language, which is a great deal to our advantage and
our credit. I violently oppose all references to the "American
language." No matter what the failings of the English may
be, no one can offend me by taking me for an Englishman,
which often happens.

There is something more about my mother's ancestry,
which I did not discover until a few years ago. Her maiden
name was Pray, and I learned from a cousin who was Cali-
fornia-born, but who had come East to make her home in
Boston, and who had delved deeply into genealogical mys-
teries, that the name is not the English word of significant
meaning, but the Anglicization of the French word pre,
which, as all who are familiar with the first lines of Long-
fellow's "Evangeline" know, means "meadow." On the other
side, my mother's grandfather bore the name of Martin, and
was of Dutch descent, and there was a rumor in the family
that they were among the many descendants of the Dutch set-
tler Anneke Jans, wife of Everardus Bogardus, whose children
and grandchildren became involved in the notorious claim
to the Trinity Church property in lower Manhattan. I have
never taken this dispute seriously. If all this be true about
my ancestry both maternal and paternal, I have a mixture of
English, French, Dutch and undoubtedly other blood in my
veins.

Another happy reminiscence of my boyhood turns me back
to the two months I spent with relatives in the New Bruns-
wick town of Hillsborough, my father's birthplace on the
banks of the Petitcodiac River, where there is a little village
and postoffice called Edgett's Landing. This was in 1879.
Although distant from its mouth in the Bay of Fundy, the
Petitcodiac River at Hillsborough is subject to the famous
tides of that arm of the Atlantic Ocean, and I never weary of
telling how their ebb and flow impressed me by a daily view
of its changing width from about a mile at high tide to creek-
size at low tide. It was a striking sight to watch from the up-

The Edgetts and the Prays 1 3

lands of the town, along which ran its main street, the waters
of the river broaden and narrow. The region round about
Hillsborough was also famous for its plaster products, and
for its anthracite mines, from which was dug a coal of almost
startling brilliancy. I visited them more than once with
young companions rather hazardously by means of open plat-
form cars on railroad freight trains. Fortunately, our trips
resulted in no disasters. My visit to Hillsborough was the
furthest journey I made from Boston until exactly twenty
years later when I went with my wife to live in London.

Names and Nicknames

PARENTHETICALLY, I want to say at this point, lest I be mis-
understood by the emphasis I shall place upon our antago-
nistic religious viewpoints, that we were a happy family. There
were four of us, father, mother, daughter and son, and I have
been the sole survivor for the past seven years. My father
died in 1904 at the age of sixty-eight on his fortieth wedding
anniversary; my mother died at the age of sixty-six, just four
days short of a year later, on my wife's birthday; my sister
died in 1933 at the age of sixty-three. She had lived with us
continuously after our return from London in 1901. Upon
my father had been bestowed the Biblical name of Reuben,
and none could have been more unwelcome to him, espe-
cially after its nickname of "Rube" had become the common
appellation of an uncouth rustic. His four brothers were
named Hiram, George, Isaac and William, with the Biblical
names in the majority. His two sisters were Ruth and Eliza-
beth, two more Biblical names. His mother's name was Ruth
Gross, and his father rejoiced in the unusual name of Handy-
side Peck Edgett.

It was not uncommon in those days to give a child a nick-
name as if it were an authentic Christian name, and although
my sister was named Lizzie, she sensibly preferred to be
known as Elizabeth, and after her maturity always so signed

14

Names and Nicknames 15

herself. She never married. Too many children are given
these undignified nicknames Harry, Fred, Tom, Jim, Nellie,
Jennie, Maggie, etc. I have a cousin who was named Willie,
but his signature is of course William. My own first name
came from an uncle, father of the aforesaid William, and
husband of my mother's older sister; my middle name was
from an army chum of my father, and my pet name from as
far back as I can remember has been Eddie. I have not the
slightest objection to being called that; in fact the older I
grow the more friends use it whenever they speak to or refer
to me, but I certainly never use it in writing.

These family names are of no especial importance, even
to me, but there is in them a certain amount of personal and
general interest. In any event, I repeat that we were a happy
family, and during all the passing years I remember all three
with love and affection. If there had been more of us, perhaps
that could not be said. Four in a family is enough for me.
Our religious differences were a temporary and passing phase
of the days now far past. As for punishment, I never suffered
that humiliation, and it was lucky for everybody concerned,
for nothing infuriates me so much as to be given it, parental
or otherwise.

This is the moment for me to say that I am fond of hav-
ing my own way, and of thinking I am right in all circum-
stances. I am easily upset by opposition, and I cannot endure
discipline, whether or not justifiable. Therefore I would not
make a good soldier, and undoubtedly would be shot for
insubordination before I had been in the ranks a month.
Neither could I be a good officer, for it would be inconsistent
and impossible for me to administer discipline to others.
Even mere supervision is obnoxious to me. I consider that
when I am requested to do a piece of work of which I am
capable, I should be let alone to do it as I please. This does
not mean that I am impervious to advice, for often I wel-
come it, although I refuse to look upon it as an order. I was

16 / Speak for Myself

granted an independence and freedom in my Transcript posi-
tion for so many years that near its end I could not endure
the authority of a newcomer that seemed to imply I did not
understand the technique of my work. An amount of red
tape ensnarled us so intricately that we were frequently at
our wits' end almost ready to leave the place to its fate. We
knew what we were supposed to do, and how to do it, better
than any interlopers. But that is a later aspect of my story.

6

I Am a Republican

ONE OF THE MOST VIVID of my boyhood recollections of what
was happening beyond the gates that opened into the world
outside of Boston, Roxbury and Cambridge, where I was
living then, goes back to the summer of 1881. On Saturday
July 2nd, within less than four months of his inauguration,
President Garfield was passing through the Union Station in
Washington, accompanied by James G. Elaine, his Secretary
of State, when as he was about to board a train he was
assassinated by a disappointed office-seeker. The news came to
the world and myself that afternoon, and then followed more
than two months of suspense while the wounded president
lay, now retreating from, now advancing towards, the in-
evitable doors of death, within sight of the Atlantic Ocean at
Elberon, New Jersey, whither he had been taken in the hope
that the sea air would benefit him. But he died on September
igth, and was succeeded by the Vice President, Chester A.
Arthur, who served as executive with much greater skill and
statemanship than anyone had credited him with possessing.
I was going to school in Cambridge at that time, and this is
merely one of a succession of political incidents that cling
fast in my memory.

That was also the summer when the greater part of New
England was darkened by atmospheric conditions that re-

'7

i8 I Speak for Myself

suited in the never-to-be-forgotten "Yellow Day" of 1881. It
came in September, and certain superstitious persons imag-
ined it to have some relation to the fate of the stricken presi-
dent who lay on his deathbed many miles away in New
Jersey. As if that were possible! There is no accounting for
or understanding of the incredible illusions of man, no mat-
ter whether he live in the jungles of Africa or the eastern
United States.

At first my ambitions for a professional career were di-
vided between the somewhat allied directions of the law and
journalism. Many men of more or less eminence have shifted
from one to the other of these professions, but why the law
beckoned to me, as I thought, I cannot now understand,
except that possibly it seemed to be the highroad to a knowl-
edge of public affairs and politics, in which I have always
been keenly interested. But journalism leads likewise in the
same direction. To this day I look first of all in the daily
newspapers for the political tidings of the hour.

My father had been a soldier in the Civil War merely a
private in the 45th Massachusetts Regiment, Company A. It
must be remembered, to account in part for my early lively
interest in the momentous struggle that saved the Union,
that I passed my boyhood within ten years of the surrender of
the rebel forces under General Lee to the Union armies
under General Grant at Appomattox. I am proud to say that
the victory of the Union over the Confederacy has always
been an important factor in my knowledge of American
history, and that I followed in the paternal footsteps of
Republicanism. The Democratic party took its place in my
father's mind, and has forever remained in mine, as the
enemy we had fought and conquered.

My Republicanism, however, is not the result of my father's
political principles and influence, but comes through my own
sincere and everlasting convictions. He would have been
sorely distressed had I deserted the Republicans to become a

/ Am a Republican 19

Democrat, but there was no fear of that. He despised the
Democrats before, during and after the Civil War, and so did
and so do I, from Secession to New Dealism. I have said
many times, to myself and to others, and I shall continue to
say as long as there are words for me to speak or write, that
under no circumstances whatever will I vote for a candidate
of the Democratic party. That is partisanship, I know, but I
believe in partisanship, and in taking sides upon all prob-
lems, whether political, social, economic or religious. If I am
not satisfied with a Republican candidate for any office, I
simply refuse to vote for him, but I will not vote for his
Democratic opponent, or for any other opponent. That is the
only logical, the only faithful, the only consistent way.

On the other hand, I detest many states of mind, but none
more than the independent or the neutral, especially the
neutral. If there is anyone who is more despicable than the
neutral, the man who has no opinion, or if he has one is
unwilling to declare it, I do not know how to describe him.
Primarily he is a coward. It is better to be a Democrat than
to be one of these. Of course I will vote for a Democrat in a
non-party municipal election, when he does not stand for
what he may call the principles of his party, but I dislike to
do it. And if you hear a man bragging that he is an inde-
pendent or a liberal, you may be sure that he does not under-
stand the meaning or the implication of those words. The
true independent or the true liberal has no need to voice to
the world the fact that he is one.

7

Elections and Battles

I WAS BROUGHT UP on the daily reading of the evening edition
of the Boston Journal, a now departed newspaper that was for
many years the official organ of the Republican party in New
England. It was a long time before I saw any other news-
paper. The Journal came into the control of Frank A.
Munsey when he was engaged in the business of absorbing
and disposing of daily newspapers in more than one city, and
later it was purchased by the Boston Herald, which is to a
modified degree its Republican successor. The thrill of those
days when I awakened to the significance of American history,
especially during presidential campaigns, continues to surge
through my veins as I recall the political battles of the seven-
ties, the eighties and the nineties.

I used to go downtown with my father to the newspaper
district, where were displayed on the evening of election day
the returns from the voting places throughout city, state and
country, and watch the figures as they were thrown by stereop-
jicon on a white sheet fastened to buildings across the street
from the newspaper offices. My father and I were both in a
state of great excitement as the vote would fluctuate now for
and now against our desires. In later years, after I had begun
work at the Transcript, I would be inside the building, in-
stead of on the sidewalk, looking comfortably through the

20

Elections and Battles 2 1

window at the returns as they came out in white and black
on the screen across Milk Street on the Old South Meeting
House tower.

I am sure that I was never more a victim of political dis-
appointment than when after three days following the presi-
dential election of 1884 the decision was given to Cleveland
over Blaine by the counting of the vote of New York state by
a scant one thousand majority. That count was and will al-
ways remain questionable. Later there came a similar disap-
pointment in 1892 when Harrison was defeated for re-elec-
tion, and again in 1916 when Hughes was declared defeated
by Wilson by a meagre majority. But how I had rejoiced at
several of the preceding Republican victories, and later in
1920, 1924 and 1928 when the Democratic party went down
in a series of overwhelming and legitimate defeats! On the
whole, I have rejoiced more often than I have lamented in
presidential years. If anything is said about the future, a day
of reckoning is sure to come. The good of the country de-
mands a suppression of the results of eight years of disastrous
political dictation.

Considering the results of the "disputed election" of 1876,
which is always certain to arise whenever we are thinking
about the problems of presidential elections, I have some-
thing emphatic to say. I have no contemporary recollection
of it, for I was too young to have a part in it, but I am certain
that Hayes became the rightfully elected president, as well by
the popular poll as by the decision of the Electoral Commis-
sion. That was a device, originated and carried through by
the Democrats in Congress, in their efforts to make secure an
election that was not theirs. The vote in favor of that Com-
mission was in the House of Representatives 158 Democrats
and 33 Republicans, and against it 18 Democrats and 68
Republicans; in the Senate the vote was 26 Democrats and
21 Republicans in favor, and i Democrat and 16 Republi-
cans against. I obtain these figures from Edward Stanwood's

22 I Speak for Myself

authoritative book, "A History of the Presidency." In the
face of them, if the Electoral Commission was not a Demo-
cratic measure, what was it? Of course the Democratic party
have not ceased to be bitter about it, for they were hoist by
their own petard. They inconsistently deride the ' 'eight to
seven" verdict of the members of the Commission that gave
to Hayes the election, but how they would have rejoiced had
the eight been in their favorl It would have been an "eight
to seven" decision just the same.

Not a word is said by these same Democrats of the justi-
fiable, or rather the undeniable, fact that, if it had not been
for the suppression of the legal Republican vote in the South-
ern states, the result in November, 1876, would have been
unquestionably a majority for Hayes. That same suppression
has been repeated at every subsequent election, from 1 880 to
1936, and it will be true again in 1940. It might be well if
the American electorate would read the fifteenth amendment
to the Constitution of the United States: "The right of the
citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or
abridged by the United States or by any state on account of
race, color or previous condition of servitude." That is ex-
plicit, and I am not reluctant to declare that anyone who says
that his right to vote is not denied or abridged in the South-
ern states does not know the meaning of the word Truth.

It matters not, however, what may be the result of an
election, I have always rejoiced and I shall continue to re-
joice, in a political campaign. "He paweth in the valley," says
Job in one of his most vehement moments, "and rejoiceth in
his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh
at fear, and is not affrighted, neither turneth he back from
the sword." I not only smell a political contest from afar, but
I revel in the odor of it from close quarters, and regret that
elections have become more infrequent the older I grow. The
proposition to extend the presidential term to six years, and
to shorten the quadrennial campaigns by holding the nom-

Elections and Battles 23

inating conventions later, leaves me cold. The oftener and
the longer the better, say I, disregarding the economical
reasons for making any change. The thunder of the political
captains and the shouting of the men in the ranks during
election times help to make life worth living for me.

8

An Editor in My Teens

IT WAS FORTUNATE for others as well as for myself that I did
not go into the law, for I am certain that I should have
been the worst lawyer that ever raised his voice in the courts,
or sat in the seats of counsel, not to mention on the bench.
Journalism at last became fixed in my mind as my destiny,
and thereafter I made it my unchangeable goal, with the hope
of advancing, as has been the ambition of many a young
journalist, into authorship and literature. It was my fate,
however, and not a regrettable fate either, to be engaged in
newspaper work as editor and writer more than fifty years.
While I was in my teens, I began to write for publication,
with a welcome here and there from editors who were hos-
pitable to my efforts, especially when they could print them
for nothing, or infrequently in return for a small check that
brought me little more than a faint breeze of financial en-
couragement. A beginner in journalism must always be will-
ing to do a considerable amount of unpaid work.

Among my earliest journalistic diversions was the making
of puzzles with their solutions; the editing and publishing of
a little paper called the Bay State Puzzler in partnership with
a young man who lived in a country town in the midst of
New York state, and whom I never saw until years later when
he called upon me at my desk in the Transcript editorial

24

An Editor in My Teens 25

rooms for a short talk about the dear departed days when we
were younger. This puzzle-making in which we were engaged
was much more varied in style and ingenuity than the mod-
ern form of cross words that has come to be the present-day
rage. My mail at that time was very heavy, and while I was
going through a mass of well preserved letters and postal
cards not long ago, preparatory to their destruction, I was
amazed to discover how I must have labored in reading and
answering them. They dated away back into the eighties of
the nineteenth century, and I had kept them all in their
original envelopes, while their postmarks ranged from Maine
to California, from Canada to Louisiana.

What to do with them was at first a puzzle and should I
really fulfill my first intention of destroying them? I did not
hesitate long, but solved that puzzle by committing them to
the flames of a convenient fireplace. Why had I kept them;
why should I continue to keep them? Because it was my habit,
I suppose, to preserve everything that came into my hands,
whether useful or useless. In addition to editing the Bay
State Puzzler, I also served without compensation as editor
of puzzle departments in several religious and agricultural
weekly papers. Indeed, so unrestrained was my passion for
doing any kind of newspaper work, that I even, at my own
solicitation, took charge of a number of notes and queries
departments in other papers, in some cases furnishing the
questions, if they did not come in fast enough, as well as
the answers.

This amateur journalistic epoch must have continued
about ten years. I had been led into it, especially the puzzles,
by the diligent reading of a popular juvenile story paper,
Golden Days, which I bought every Saturday at a news-stand
from its first issue in 1880 for some eight or nine following
years. I long had in my safe possession seven volumes of it
which I went to the trouble and expense of having bound.
They were kept in my attic for about thirty years, and now

s6 / Speak for Myself

to conserve my space they are deposited in the Harvard Col-
lege Library. I used to take pleasure in turning their pages
and thereby bringing back the past by looking over the
stories signed with the once familiar names of Oliver Optic,
Horatio Alger, Harry Castlemon, Edward S. Ellis and all the
other popular writers for boys who reigned half a century
ago. Frank R. Stockton appeared in Golden Days with at
least one serial story during the earlier days of his fame.

I shall never forget that in Golden Days my first printed
words appeared in the form of a short story. For it I received
a check for $5.00, which seemed to me at that time to be a
small fortune. Another paper of the type of Golden Days was
founded at about the same time by Frank A. Munsey, then
unknown and unheralded in the ranks of newspaperdom.
He called it The Golden Argosy, a title obviously suggested
by Golden Days, and I read it also with no less eagerness. I
have a vague recollection of seeing Munsey not long after-
wards on several occasions in the advertising agency where
I was working, as he went on his way between his native
Maine and New York, doubtless even then with the hope of
reaching the high estate and financial prosperity to which he
finally rose.

Going to the Play

DURING ALL THIS TIME, I had been no less interested in re-
ligion than in politics. There, unlike our union in political
beliefs, I was at variance with my parents. They were Bap-
tists, and I can assure you that the Baptists of those days of
the seventies, eighties and nineties were even stronger in
their faith than the name of the denomination now implies.
They were thoroughgoing Fundamentalists, although that
word was not then an epithet for the ultraorthodox. Both
father and mother were recent converts to the Baptist creed,
and they had all the intense enthusiasm of the proselyte.
They looked upon a church of any denomination as the
house of God, and upon the theatre as the habitation of the
Devil. With one exception, when they were over-persuaded
by a friend who one evening took me to the old Boston Mu-
seum, I never entered a theatre until I was almost twenty. I
atoned for that later.

By the way, that home of a nationally famous stock com-
pany, then already in existence for about fifty years, was
viewed by the religious-minded as an institution not quite
so bad as other places of dramatic entertainment. But in
spite of its name, it was a theatre, like all the other theatres
in Boston. It had been established in the forties as a com-
bined museum and playhouse, with paintings, statuary, curi-

28 / Speak for Myself

osities and other works of art or allied with the arts in a hall
through which the patrons passed on their way to the audi-
torium with its stage and footlights. Those museum features
were secondary to its purposes as a theatre, but as the years
went by few of its patrons took the time or the trouble to
inspect them. The Museum audiences went there for no
other purpose than to see the plays. Yet these subordinate
attractions remained until the closing of the theatre in 1901,
when it was dismantled and taken down; the Kimball Build-
ing, named for the family that owned the property, arose in
its place and is still standing for store and office purposes.

The leading members of the Boston Museum Stock Com-
pany, which of course changed its personnel from season to
season, included some of the foremost American actors.
Among them were Mrs. Vincent, Annie Clarke, Charles Bar-
ron, George W. Wilson and especially William Warren, who
was one of its chief attractions during his notable career
there of fifty years. This long record is not matched in the
history of American acting or the American theatre. With
many, a visit to the Boston Museum was merely to see War-
ren act, no matter what the play or his role. He was the son
of another William Warren, an eminent actor who had come
over from England in his youth, and who was for a long time
a leading light of the Philadelphia stage. The younger
Warren was a second cousin of Joseph Jefferson. And the
local celebrity of Mrs. Vincent, who was of English birth,
was so enduring that a club of society young women and a
hospital were founded in her memory and are now in active
existence.

Quite consistently, in view of my later connection with the
theatrical profession after I became literary editor of the
Transcript, it was about the stage, plays and players that
I began to write in earnest for publication. I took to the
subject as though I had been born in the atmosphere of the
theatre, which was certainly not true. I began a round of

Going to the Play 29

playgoing that continued uninterruptedly until the era of
motion pictures narrowed its appeal in many minds, and
thereby weakened my interest in the drama. Even now, when
real plays seem to be tending to come into their own again,
despite the more universal appeal and lesser expense of go-
ing to the motion pictures, my visits to a theatre of any kind
are but seldom. Despite the wide range of scenes on the
screen, I do not care for its form of entertainment, to put it
mildly. They confront my eyes as merely faint illusions of
plays as they are acted by real men and women.

The motion picture misrepresentations, especially of plots
and stories taken from books and plays, are often appalling.
Some time ago I went to see a picture on the screen purport-
ing to be Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," but early in
the course of its display I discovered that I had been de-
ceived by its widely heralded appeal as a production of that
great tragedy. On the contrary, it was such a deliberate dis-
tortion of the play that I, and the friend with me, were un-
able to sit through it to the end. The panoramic pictures at
its beginning were perhaps pardonable, although they had
little relevance to the story, but we did not remain long after
a balcony scene in which Romeo was so far below Juliet that
he could not have reached her without a fire-ladder. Our de-
rision was also aroused by another scene in which Romeo,
after the slaying of Mercutio, chased Tybalt through miles
and miles of the streets of Verona. The actual tragedy of all
this is that so many in the audience were deluded into think-
ing they had seen Shakespeare's play. I have seen only one
or two motion pictures since, and I have little intention of
going to another. But you never can tell! That they are
a great recreational institution there is no doubt, although
I fear they fill too much of the time of both the younger
generation and their elders.

IO

At Church and Sunday School

I SEEM HERE to have gone off from the subject of religion, as
frequently happens when politics, the theatre, and other fa-
vorite subjects lead me elsewhere. I hope, however, it has
been a pardonable excursion. Now I return to the religious
phase of my early life. Religion was certainly one of the most
vital influences of my childhood, especially in its effect of
enforced church and Sunday School going upon the mind
of a boy such as I, who had ideas and a will of his own that
refused to be held in parental subjection. As I have said, my
parents were Baptists, and their zeal for religion and its
formal observances was unlimited and immeasurable. With
them the Baptist denomination was the custodian of the in-
most truths of Christianity. I was supposed not to read fiction
on Sunday, and but a limited amount of it on any day. As
may be easily imagined, I frequently failed to heed their
commands or desires. Towards and into my teens, I was
compelled to "go to church" twice or thrice every Sunday,
of course once to Sunday School, and to prayer meeting at
least once a week. How I especially loathed this, with its
"testimonies" of the newly captured convertsl

All this was at the Dudley Street Baptist Church in Rox-
bury, then and still a bulwark of the Protestant faith in its
most orthodox form. It has had many pastors of varying

At Church and Sunday School 31

competency during all the years since the 18705. The pastor
in my time was the Rev. Henry M. King, whose career as a
highly esteemed clergyman was a credit to the denomination
he represented. It is a pity that all his fellow preachers of
any faith are not as sincere and personable as he. One of the
later Dudley Street pastors was the Rev. Thomas Dixon, Jr.,
who attained considerable repute as a novelist, and who was
the author of the book that originated the famous motion
picture known as "The Birth of a Nation."

I resented all this compulsory church attendance because
I was forced to listen to the preaching of doctrines from the
pulpit, and to remarks of the teachers from the benches of
the Sunday School, for which I had from the first an intense
dislike in an increasing mood of unbelief. I was not allowed
to answer or even to ask for elucidation or explanation.
Many of these so-called teachers knew little about the history
or the origin of the doctrines of the Bible. They were simply
ardent defenders of a faith they accepted without reserva-
tion, and were ignorant of the history or fundamentals of the
religion they took delight in voicing to immature minds. It
was a trial for me to be denied the right of answering them
by an expression of my own opinions, which I was certain
were as good as theirs, even though I was younger. If I at-
tempted to "talk back," I was looked upon as impertinent
and audacious, but it was an act that once in a while I
ventured upon.

One of the clergymen whom I sat under and was forced
to listen to at a church in Cambridge was a venerable old
man. Doubtless he was not as old as he seemed to my young
eyes. He was of the type known as "Pulpit Thumper," and
he made it clear to all his congregation, as he thought, that
we were on the broad way to eternal damnation if we failed
to heed his admonitions. Even to this day there are clergy-
men like him, for I have heard them over the radio. The
Sunday School teachers were filled with a like enthusiasm,

32 I Speak for Myself

but they were feebly equipped mentally to deliver their
message with conviction to alert minds. Naturally I suffered
not a little from them on many a Sabbath.

I felt that I was being taken at an unfair advantage. Was
it right that I should not be allowed to have a mind of my
own? Why could I not oppose these preachers and teachers,
at least mildly? All this went on for some years, increasing
my opposition to orthodox doctrines. My parents failed, as
have many other parents, to understand that their methods
were not the most effective for inculcating their religious
beliefs in the minds of children. Their intentions were good,
but they produced a contrary effect upon me. I knew I was
young, to be sure, but I knew I had brains.

This is well remembered as a period when there was an
epidemic among children to become "converted," chiefly
under the threat of Hell, and to have them "join the church"
by the baptismal rite of immersion. I refused to submit to all
the appeals that were dinned into my ears, and since I
would not join them in their watery ceremony, which has
always seemed absurd to me, I was looked upon as one of
the unregenerate who were destined to the horrible fate of
eternal punishment. Children brought up in other denomi-
nations were "christened" in their infancy, but since the
Baptists do not believe in "infant baptism" I was not in my
innocence forced to submit to it. Of that, let me say, I am
glad, and therefore there was some consolation in my con-
nection with a Baptist family. I was called many names,
especially atheist, which was false and which I have never
been. I resented that epithet, as much as I objected to being
called a Christian. Especially was I indignant when 1 was
told: "You're a Christian, but you don't know it." As if that
were possible!

My Religious Secession

MY ANTIPATHETIC STATE OF MIND gTCW WOISC and WOrSC,

from the parental point of view, but better and better from
mine. I revolted from practically all the ideas I heard from
preacher and teacher, and more than all else I took an in-
creased offence at the doctrine of Hell. I did not believe in it
then, and I do not believe in it now. It seems to me to be
little better than an insane delusion, especially as part of a
religion that preaches an omniscient and beneficent God. I
was told that I should be cast into its fires if I did not have
"a change of heart" and "join the church," in other words
if I did not believe what to me was absolutely unbelievable.
Very few Christians who teach the doctrine of Hell under-
stand its implications and realize that it is intended to sig-
nify a place of torture of the varying kinds thus described in
the words of Claudio in Shakespeare's comedy "Measure for
Measure":

Ay, but to die and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world.

35

34 I Speak for Myself

Later in life when I read the fanatical words of Jonathan
Edwards about holding sinners suspended in terror over the
flames of Hell, which were often used to frighten the ig-
norant, the illiterate and the juvenile, I became astounded
at the fulsome praise bestowed upon that preacher as a
masterly man of God and a philosopher. That I may not be
accused of doing injustice to him, these are the words
uttered by him in a sermon entitled "Sinners in the Hands
of an Angry God." They read: "The God that holds you
over the pit of Hell, much as one holds a spider or some
loathesome insect over the fire, is dreadfully provoked; you
are ten thousand times more hateful in his eyes than the
most hateful, venomous serpent in ours." In these times at
any rate, they are scarcely the proper words to be used by a
clergyman in the hope that they will lead the hearer into
the paths of righteousness. Such pronouncements are a dis-
grace to a clergyman or any man of intellectual accomplish-
ments.

My antipathy to church and Sunday-school going, and to
all the doctrines I was forced to listen to led me to the
reading rooms of the Boston Public Library, then and for a
long time afterwards in the building on Boylston Street that
is now the site of the Colonial Building and the Colonial
Theatre. Also I went to its Roxbury Branch about a mile
from my home. I made frequent search there for all sorts of
controversial and polemic reading on religion. I especially
sought the current issues of denominational papers, of which
there were then many. I read the Baptist, the Methodist, the
Congregational, the Presbyterian, the Episcopal, in fact all
the orthodox organs, as well as the heterodox organs of the
Unitarians and Universalists, the local representatives of
which were the Christian Register and the Christian Leader.
I also read the out-and-out agnostic and anti-Christian papers
such as the long departed exponents called The Index and
The Investigator, both published in Boston, and the re-

My Religious Secession 35

reading of which nowadays would be especially enlightening
because of the liberalization of the doctrines of some of the
orthodox faiths.

In addition to these, I read the Banner of Light, which
was the rather startling title of a spiritualist paper published
also in Boston, with its headquarters in a bookstore which
contained an abundant supply of material of interest to ad-
herents of that faith. The more liberal papers brought dis-
tinct enlightenment to my mind, and opened my eyes with
their revelation of ideas and principles that seemed to be
mine instinctively, and this with their opposing papers gave
me a wide range of opinions both favorable and unfavorable
to the doctrines I was compelled to listen to in church. I also
sought books on religious problems of every variety, among
those that I read with ardor being Winwood Reade's now
almost forgotten book entitled "The Martyrdom of Man,"
which is practically a history of the world, and J. M. Rob-
ertson's remarkable "History of Freethought in the Nine-
teenth Century." I now occasionally dip into their pages. It
will be noted from all this that I am an irreconcilable mate-
rialist.

12

In Boston Churches

THERE WAS A LARGE AMOUNT of religious and denomina-
tional controversy in those days, but as the nineteenth cen-
tury passed into the twentieth, liberalism invaded some of
the aforetime orthodox pulpits. Yet the fundamentalist point
of view is still preached from certain churches, among its
bulwarks in Boston being the Tremont Temple Baptist and
the Park Street Congregational churches which stand near
each other in the downtown centre of the city. Let me di-
verge from doctrines to architecture for a moment, and look
at them as they confront daily many hundreds of thousands
who are hurrying through the Boston streets. The first of
these, Tremont Temple, has nothing churchly about it,
either interior or exterior. It stands as one structure in the
middle of a block of buildings, with an entrance in which
are displayed announcements of motion pictures, lectures
and other forms of entertainment. Inside its walls are lesser
halls and offices where are carried on professional and busi-
ness activities of a hundred varieties. The main Tremont
Temple hall is a high-ceiled rectangular auditorium with a
platform, a pulpit desk and a large church organ at one end,
and two balconies surrounding three of its sides. It is utilized
of course for the many church services, and may also be
rented for almost any purpose, possibly excluding prize

36

In Boston Churches 37

fights, wrestling matches and rodeos, but including concerts,
receptions and even political conventions and rallies.

On the other hand, the Park Street Church, fronting on
Tremont Street, is a characteristic New England religious
edifice of Bulfinch design, with Boston Common across Park
Street on one side and the Old Granary Burying Ground,
where stands an ancient monument erected by Benjamin
Franklin in memory of his parents, on the other. Since the
main floor of the church is up a flight of steps from the side-
walk, its basement just below the street level is occupied by
flower and plant shops and other forms of trade, restaurants
and miscellaneous commercial enterprises. It is an extremely
picturesque building, with its white clock-faced steeple sug-
gesting the atmosphere of a small country village rather than
of a big city.

Because of the orthodoxy of the fulminations from its pul-
pit during many years, the epithet of "Brimstone Corner" is
borne by the Park Street Church and its surroundings, and
once upon a time a Bostonian wit of some celebrity, bearing
in mind the strong breezes that swept around it, made the apt
remark that God would have been wise had he tethered a
shorn lamb there. At the opposite corner of Park Street stand
on the Common several structures utilized for subway sta-
tions that have been satirically described as a litter of Public
Library pups, so much do they resemble in miniature the
large Boston Public Library building in Copley Square.

This church is one of the historic sights of Boston, similar
in antique interest to the Old State House in the exact mid-
dle of the top of State Street, at its intersection with Wash-
ington Street, only a few rods from the scene of the Boston
Massacre; the Old South Meeting House at the corner of
Washington and Milk streets, where plays were acted by the
British soldiers during the Siege of Boston; Faneuil Hall with
its bustling ground-floor market; and the Old North Church
where were hung the lantern signals to Paul Revere on the

3 8 / Speak for Myself

eve of the battle of Concord and Lexington. But we who have
lived in Boston for a lifetime pass these places without a
thought of their history. It is the newcomer to Boston who
takes them to heart and says of them: "How wonderful!"

13

The Scriptures and Their Beauty

To TURN BACK TO RELIGION, from which I was led astray by
this reminiscence of old-time Boston which seems to indicate
that after all I am sometimes sensitive to its history: My het-
erodox ideas continued to seethe in my mind, and at last,
when I was about fifteen, I became so assured of myself that
I was able to exercise the authority of approaching manhood
and throw off a cloak of religion that I was not fitted to wear.
I said to myself, and possibly aloud to others, "I will not go
to church or Sunday School again," and I have gone very sel-
dom since, and then only of my own volition. My parents
were obliged to make the best of what they thought a bad
matter, but we continued to love each other just the same.
One amusing change of attitude on their part was that after
I had become engaged in my work as a professional recorder
and critic of the theatre, both my father and my mother occa-
sionally went with me to a play or opera. I had not converted
them to my religious faith, or rather to my lack of faith, but
at least I had softened and humanized them and had caused
them to realize the sincerity of my beliefs.

For thus giving frank expression to my attitude towards
religion in general and Christianity in particular, I am likely
to be accused of a lack of understanding and want of appreci-
ation of the spiritual elements in man. Yet I have complete

39

40 I Speak for Myself

cognizance of them, and I respect those whose opinions differ
from mine. I also have no lack of knowledge of the solemnity
of the Bible, especially of its King James English version,
which seems almost as if it were born of divine inspiration.
This I may say in spite of my disbelief in inspiration, divine
or otherwise. The literary beauty of some passages in both
the Old and the New Testament is undeniable. The Psalms
of David are unequalled for their revelation of the inmost
feelings of the human soul, whatever may be said of the physi-
cal nature of the man to whom their writing is attributed.
They are true poetry, if there be such a thing as true poetry.
The most quoted Psalm is the twenty-third, and justly so;
but there are others, of which the ninetieth is almost as su-
preme.

These are its lines, and I am presenting them in metrical
form, and not as they may be read in the pages of the Bible.
Thereby they have the appearance as well as the significance
and content of poetry.

Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place

In all generations.

Before the mountains were brought forth,

Or ever thou hadst formed the earth

And the world,

Even from everlasting to everlasting,

Thou art God.

Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest,

Return, ye children of men.

For a thousand years in thy sight

Are but as yesterday when it is past,

And as a watch in the night.

Thou carryest them away as with a flood;

They are as a sleep; in the morning

They are like grass which groweth up.

In the morning it flourished!

And groweth up;

In the evening it is cut down and withereth,

The Scriptures and Their Beauty 41

For we are consumed by thine anger,
And by thy wrath are we troubled.

O satisfy us early with thy mercy;
That we may rejoice and be glad
All our days.

Now these lines and all the rest of the Psalms may not per-
suade anyone of the truths of Christianity as they are set
down in the New Testament. Nor can they be taken liter-
ally, for they are contrary to the truths of science. Their spir-
itual significance gives good reason why the Bible in many
languages has become the guiding star of a large portion of
mankind. They may be read and studied both as religion and
as literature, but to many of us they are literature more than
they are religion.

Some years later, I did go, in accordance with my own sweet
will, and because I liked to listen to the clear expression of
ideas from the pulpit, to the Tremont Temple, which is still
a dominant and influential orthodox centre of the work of
the Baptists in Boston. Its pastor then was the Rev. Dr.
George C. Lorimer, who had none of the obvious character-
istics of a denominational preacher. He was an eloquent
clerical speaker who gave every Sunday an interesting address,
rather than a doctrinal sermon, and who always aroused in
me a desire to listen to him again, no matter what his specific
theme. His voice was appealing, no matter how long he
talked. I knew he would invariably have something worth
while to tell me and others in his congregation, or perhaps I
should describe it as his audience. I may have been preju-
diced in his favor by the fact that there was nothing notably
religious about the auditorium of Tremont Temple, and also
by my knowledge that in his younger days he had been an
actor.

Dr. Lorimer was of Scottish birth and ancestry, the step-
son of a theatrical manager named Josephs, and he was on the

42 I Speak for Myself

stage for some years, coming to this country at the age of sev-
enteen, and acting in various cities. At last he abandoned the
theatre for the pulpit, and rose to become an influential and
widely known exponent not merely of the Baptist faith but
of the Christian church. He was sixty-six at the time of his
death in Aix-les-Bains, whither he had gone for his health. He
was the father of George Horace Lorimer, author of "Letters
from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son/' who was for almost
forty years editor of the Saturday Evening Post.

This brings to mind that, years before Dr. Lorimer's time,
another actor had likewise gone from the theatre to the
church, although later in his life. This was James Sheridan
Knowles, who was better known as a dramatist than as an
actor. He was the author of several popular dramas, includ-
ing "Virginius," "The Love Chase/' and "The Hunchback/'
without the acting of which no theatrical season either in
Great Britain or in the United States was considered com-
plete for many years. This era of my church-going was coinci-
dent with the first epoch of my theatre-going, before and dur-
ing my college days.

As an Office Boy

ALL THIS is MERELY a casual view of myself, just to reveal my
unchanging feelings as the years went by. During this time I
managed to pick up a few dollars now and then by means of
odds and ends of work, the most important being a short pe-
riod of about a year in the Cambridge Public Library, which
in the early eighties occupied restricted quarters on the sec-
ond floor of a building in the midst of a business block that
stood on Main Street within a stone's throw of Central Square.
If I remember aright, I worked there on the afternoons and
evenings of three days a week, out of my school hours, my
duties being to take the books asked for by the applicants to
the delivery desk. It was easy and congenial work, and for it
I received the munificent sum of fifty cents a day.

As I survey in my mind's eye that library scene of more
than fifty years ago, it rests in memory not upon the rows of
books on the shelves, but instead upon the spaces there made
vacant by the continuous demand of grown-up readers for the
fiction of Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, Mary Jane Holmes,
and other popular writers of that hour, and also of the youth-
ful devotees of such authors for the young as Oliver Optic,
Horatio Alger, Harry Castlemon and their companions who
were then at the height of their reputation. There were many
hours from day to day when all those shelves were absolutely

43

44 I Speak for Myself

empty. Quite logically, but unintentionally, I was in a book-
ish atmosphere from my early teens.

As I grew up, and felt my way along towards manhood, I
continued to find an audience for my writing, small though
it was. Among much else, I contributed play reviews to sub-
urban and minor Boston papers. After going to a grammar
school, from which I was graduated, I sought an advanced
education at the Cambridge High School for a year, from
which I was not graduated because I left it to search for an
opportunity to earn my living. My father and mother gave
me a home, and with the aid of a family friend I found em-
ployment, first as a combination office boy, typist and general
help for a Boston agent of a New York lithographic printing
firm who was also the American representative of an English
steel manufacturing and exporting house. Its headquarters
were at Rotherham, not far from Sheffield, that famous and
ancient town in the West Riding of Yorkshire mentioned by
Scott in the very first paragraph of "Ivanhoe."

Years and years afterwards I was dining at the house of
friends where a young Englishman was also present. When I
happened to mention Rotherham, he exclaimed, "Why I was
born there," one of those odd coincidences that we sometimes
encounter by happy fate. The name of this first employer of
mine was C. W. Power, but apparently he was ashamed that
the letter C stood for Cornelius, for when more than one
acquaintance called him Charlie, he did not set them aright.
This was in 1885, and his office was in the rear of the third
floor of the Transcript Building, in which structure I was
destined soon to find a working home over a period, with
brief intermissions, of no less than fifty years.

Since I received only $3.00 a week from him (green office
boys now get at least five times that) I looked about me for
some means to increase that meagre salary; and buying a
typewriter on the instalment plan, I earned some extra money
by copying papers and documents, mainly architects' specifi-

As an Office Boy 45

cations, which I obtained through my father's aid. I went
into it in business-like fashion and had so good a supply of
cards printed that I still have many left. Why have I kept
them, I do not know, except to sustain my remembrance of
those prentice days. These are the words on them: "Edwin F.
Edgett, Type- Writer Copyist. All kinds of copying done with
neatness and dispatch. Rates 6 cents per 100 words; dupli-
cate copies half price. Room 8, Transcript Building, 328
Washington Street, Boston, Mass." So it will be seen that the
Transcript and I were associated from my earliest days.

After less than a year I left this employer to work as a com-
bination office boy and clerk for a solicitor of patents named
P. E. Teschemacher, and learned quite a little about that un-
usual profession which acts as an intermediary between the
inventor and the United States Patent Office in Washington.
When an applicant for a patent came in we would first make
a careful search through the classified index published by
the government, for which of course a fee was charged by Mr.
Teschemacher, and if anything similar was discovered we
would advise the applicant that it would be useless to pursue
the matter further. Otherwise, if he told us to go ahead, we
would prepare the papers for him, send them on to Washing-
ton and await the issue. The work of this profession is some-
times misunderstood. My employer was not a patent attorney,
who tries patent cases in the courts, but merely a solicitor
whose work ends with the granting or refusal of the patents.

This work was not uncongenial, but again, after less than
a year at it, I transferred my labors and interests, thereby
gaining a slight increase in salary, to a third room on the
third floor of the Transcript Building. This time I was with
an advertising agency under the control of Henry B. Hum-
phrey, who not long ago was honored with a dinner in com-
memoration of his fiftieth anniversary as its head. I should
have attended it, especially as I received an invitation from
Mr. Humphrey to sit at the head table as his guest; but as

46 / Speak for Myself

always my chronic indisposition to attend such gatherings
got the better of me, and I failed to do my duty. I have re-
fused to be present at other such occasions, and I fear I shall
never be able to overcome this negligent habit.

During all these changes, it will be noted, I had moved
only a few feet, the latest to Mr. Humphrey's advertising
agency being to a suite of two rooms in the Transcript Build-
ing, with their windows looking across Milk Street out over
the sloping roof of the historic Old South Meeting House.
These frequent removals were not due to a restless spirit, but
always along the path of advancement in my more or less suc-
cessful attempts to rise in the world and better myself finan-
cially. My second salary, as I remember, was $5.00 a week, and
during my three years in the advertising business I received
successively $7.00, $9.00 and $10.00 weekly.

This entire period of office work continued about five
years, the major part of the time in advertising, the especial
attraction of this, aside from the slowly increasing salary, be-
ing that it brought me into the atmosphere of newspapers,
even though I had nothing to do with their editing or writ-
ing. I was so fond of newspapers and everything connected
with them that at one time I began a collection of them, but
soon gave it up when I discovered that a storage warehouse
would be required eventually to accommodate them. By work-
ing in an advertising agency, which receives daily a large
number of newspapers, it was easy for me to acquire one copy
of different papers from all over the country. But I was still
far from my goal, a position on a newspaper. For five years I
eyed with envy the Transcript employees as they were going
to and fro, up and down stairs (for there was no elevator in
the building) listening to the sound of the telegraph instru-
ments on the floor above me, and to the roar of the presses in
the basement.

15

At Last an A. B.

I HAD ALWAYS HAD THE THOUGHT of college in my mind, but
not until some moment I cannot recall did it seem more than
a vain hope. How could I go to college with practically no
savings, with no capital, and no adequate preparation with
which to face the ordeal of the entrance examinations? I
should be almost incomeless for four years, and with no defi-
nite prospect of increasing my earning powers when at last I
had achieved the minor degree of A. B. My parents would
give me a home, but they were unable to do more, except to
offer me the best advice and encouragement within their
power. It would be a sacrifice for them to support me for a
long four years, but they did it. I did my best to repay them
in the years after my graduation.

Harvard was my aim. I thought of no other college, chiefly
because I lived not far from Harvard. My first step was to
enter the Boston Evening High School, and to attend some
of its classes while I was working daily in the advertising busi-
ness, which fortunately I liked. I hoped to prepare myself for
the entrance examinations in a year, but I was soon told by a
friend who had just become a member of the Harvard fresh-
man class that I might enter at once as a special student. That
plan had never occurred to me, and of course I grasped it.
This intimate friend, James Walter Smith, dead now some

47

48 / Speak for Myself

ten years, will appear again in these pages, and I want to say
now that he was my closest associate from the moment we
met in the eighties. Both of us were then less than twenty,
and he became a part of my life and I a part of his for almost
half a century. We had been ardent playgoers since the begin-
ning of our intimacy. He was attacked vigorously by the jour-
nalistic bee, and so was I. He went to London shortly after
his graduation from Harvard in 1894 to enter and pursue his
profession there, and I followed him at his invitation about
five years later, but remained only a year, he staying on suc-
cessfully until after the outbreak of the World War. But all
this, in the words of a great journalist who became a great
author, is another story, to be continued in these pages a little
later.

My attempt to become a special student at Harvard met
with success, and, quite surprised at and rejoicing in my good
luck, I was enrolled in October, 1890, about a month after
the college had opened its new year. I left my advertising
employment at once, although I later returned to it during
two summer vacations. Soon I was on my way up a long and
steep climb through four Harvard years. What I had to do
was to raise myself from the role of special student to the rank
of undergraduate by selecting a list of six courses, two more
than the required number, each college year. If I received
the high mark of A or B in them, I should pass in each course
for the year, and also remove my condition in each subject.
The scheme of the special student system was that the ambi-
tious young man was conditioned in every study required for
entrance, and to become an undergraduate he must make a
definite record in each. I did what I set out to do, eventually
becoming a member of the class of 1894, being graduated in
that year at the age of twenty-seven. In other words, I was
four years older than the average student. Neither then nor
since have I regretted that I was over the normal age, feeling
that my superior years had given me a clearer outlook and a

At Last an A. B. 49

firmer grasp upon my studies and upon the world outside
than I should have had in entering college in my teens.

There is something else to tell about my attainment of this
A. B. degree. I had not been able to pass off all my condi-
tions. To gain my diploma I was still faced by the fateful
problems of algebra and geometry. It seemed for a time that
they had been placed there deliberately to block my path. I
was in good company, for mathematics has been an obstacle
to many others. As the end of my fourth year approached, I
thought I was beaten. I had not taken the entrance examina-
tions in mathematics, and I had entered no course in any
branch of that science, but I could attempt them belatedly.
By what appears to be a miracle, I passed the test in algebra:
since I answered only two out of the five questions on the
paper, and made merely a teeble attempt at a third, I have
never understood how I did it. Perhaps there was an angel
watching over me who inspired sympathy and leniency in
whoever read and marked my answers. His task was certainly
slight. Then I had also the examination in plane geometry
to undergo; but I could not pass it, be it plane or otherwise,
for the simple reason that I knew literally nothing about a
subject that is an open book to any mathematician. My previ-
ous efforts as a student of that science had all been failures.

In the midst of my distress, I sought the dean, then the
always helpful and lovable Professor Le Baron Russell Briggs,
afterwards president of Radcliffe College, and was told by
him that my only chance was to petition the faculty for my
degree without removing my geometry condition, and, what
was worse, I should not know if it were granted until Com-
mencement Day. He added encouragingly that, since my
record otherwise was good, the chances were in my favor. I
presented the petition, my plea was granted and I became a
Bachelor of Arts of Harvard College. How much good it has
done me, I have never been able to learn, except that I have

50 / Speak for Myself

the right to claim to be a Harvard alumnus, and to write the
letters A. B. after my name, which I never do.

At any rate, to counterbalance my degradation in mathe-
matics, I received at my graduation what is known as Honor-
able Mention in English Literature and in English Composi-
tion, which meant that I had been given the mark of either
A or B in a specified number of courses in those subjects. I
had specialized in them during all my four years, and it is
therefore not astonishing that I did well in them.

I was helped a great deal while I was at Harvard by the
fact that my friend Walter Smith roomed in Weld Hall, one
of the dormitories in the yard. My home was in West Somer-
ville, nearly two miles away, just over the line from North
Cambridge. I walked back and forth daily, making my head-
quarters in Walter's room, being granted as many privileges
as though I belonged there and helped his father pay the
rent. There I met several of his friends who became my
friends, primarily Billy Boos, his roommate, whose specialty
was chemistry. He is of German ancestry, and after graduat-
ing from Harvard, he received the degree of Ph. D. from the
University of Heidelberg and of M. D. from the Harvard
Medical School. Other important scientific services followed
at the University of Strassburg and elsewhere, and he became
a practicing physician in Boston and a specialist in toxicology,
being often summoned as an expert of last resort in many
court trials where poison has been a formidable factor. I have
called him by his youthful nickname, but he is known to the
world as Dr. William Frederick Boos. In a recent book en-
titled "The Poison Trail," in which he tells "the story of
man's struggle against his most insidious enemy," he throws
much light on that phase of his profession. Another member
of the class of 1894, equally eminent in the same work, was
Dr. George Burgess Magrath, and still another is the class
secretary, Edward Kennard Rand, now and for many years a
Harvard professor of Latin. The mention of his name brings

At Last an A. B. 51

vividly to mind that one of my greatest unfulfilled ambitions
is scholarship in the classics, and that one of my most em-
phatic regrets is that among the educational tendencies of the
hour are neglect of and opposition to the study and teach-
ing of the languages and literatures of ancient Greece and
Rome. They are of far greater intellectual value than is a
knowledge of mathematics. The class of 1894 is quite excep-
tional for having a large number of its members still with us.

16

Mathematics a Stumbling Block

ONE ADVANTAGE TO THE STUDENT of English composition was
that he had no examinations to pass, for he was marked on
the themes and essays he handed in to the teacher at stated
intervals. In one class, English 12, there were daily themes to
write, each of only one page. One teacher, I do not remember
who, remarked to his class in history, or whatever it was, that
he had little to say in favor of examinations in general as
tests of a student's knowledge, but that he could not see what
to substitute for them, and that they were therefore perhaps
a necessary evil. It certainly did add to my peace of mind,
when I was taking a course in English composition, to an-
ticipate that there would be no three hours of discomfort in
the examination room twice a year, the finals usually by some
sad chance taking place on a superheated June morning. On
the other hand, the reading and marking of examination pa-
pers is a terrific grind for a professor to be subjected to at
any time.

I am by no means alone in my mathematical deficiencies.
Ever since the day of the immortal Euclid, there have been
many men whose minds have not run in his channels, and
who know scarcely the difference between a radius and a
diameter, who know nothing about logarithms and the calcu-
lus, and who are ignorant of what the Greek letter Pi stands

52

Mathematics a Stumbling Block 53

for in geometry. From my earliest days I have been unable
to comprehend even the elements of mathematics. As a dis-
tinguished Harvard professor whose reputation still lives in-
side and out of the university once said to the members of
a large class in English composition: "I never could under-
stand what the blamed stuff is all about." Perhaps he used a
stronger word than "blamed," but whatever it was we will
let it go at that.

A more famous man than this professor had written years
before from the English Cambridge to his mother at home:
"I can scarcely bear to write on mathematics and mathemati-
cians. Oh for words to express my abomination of that sci-
ence, if a name sacred to the useful and embellishing arts
may be applied to the perception and recollection of certain
numbers and figures. Oh that I had to learn astrology, or
demonology, or school divinity; oh that I were to pore over
Thomas Aquinas, and to adjust the relation of Entity with
the two Predicaments, and that I were exempted from this
miserable study. Discipline of the mind! Say rather starva-
tion, confinement, torture, annihilation! But it must be. I
feel myself becoming a personification of algebra, a living
trigonometrical canon, a walking table of logarithms!"

This famous opponent of mathematics was Macaulay. For
myself, it may have been that my troubles in mathematics
were due partly to the methods of teaching fifty years ago.
Possibly they have changed for the better. I hope so. At any
rate, it is obvious to me now that they were totally inade-
quate. They certainly ought to be altered, if they have under-
gone no change. I feel sure after all these many years that my
shortcomings were not wholly my own fault, since little if
anything was done in school by way of sympathetic explana-
tion to make my pathway easy. I felt then and I feel now that
no effort was made to stimulate what little mathematical
mind I possessed, or whatever mild interest I might have been
able to arouse in figures, angles and all the other formulas of

54 / Speak for Myself

algebra and geometry, not to mention trigonometry and quad-
ratics. Amid what happened in the schoolroom it was never
explained to me, and I could never understand why we were
forced to figure with letters. I know that x represents an un-
known quantity, but why does it, and what do I care about
unknown quantities when even known quantities are a mys-
tery to me? x, y and z seemed to be nothing more than letters
of the alphabet. Why should they usurp the place of figures?
It may seem strange to my readers, as it also seems strange
to me, that, in spite of all this antipathy to mathematics, I
read everything about astronomy that came before my eyes,
and have continued to do so. Some of the books on that sci-
ence are of course utterly beyond me, but if they do not go
too far, if they are not filled with mathematical calculations,
my mind is able to grasp some of their intricacies. The ether
which fills the universe and submerges the stars, the moon
and the satellites and planets and comets, arouses in me a
supreme exaltation of spirit and body. I can see all these
heavenly bodies, even if I do not know how to calculate and
prophesy their movements. Astronomy fills my imagination
with its mysterious inhabitants of space. Its elements are easy
to grasp, and I need go no further than them. At least I know
how many degrees there are in a circle, what it means when
we read about light-years, how far it is from the earth to the
Pole Star, what are the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems,
what Galileo proved when he dropped two bodies of unequal
weight from the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and many of the
other aspects and wonders of the universe.

17

Harvard Hardships

As I LOOK BACK UPON THEM, even in my most optimistic moods,
my days at Harvard were a continuous series of hardships.
My worst handicap was lack of money. I suffered from that
both of itself, and because in the lecture halls and on the
college grounds I met multitudes of youths who gave no
thought to money for the good reason that they had plenty
of it. Too many of them were supercilious in their attitude
towards their fellows with little means. Some of these rich
ones were supported in such affluence by their parents that
they were able to live in suites with gold desk-fittings and
the attentions of a valet. I heard of one student who bought
a piano with his scholarship money. I shall never forget the
morning when I passed on a college path a student I had
been tutoring the previous evening and received no recogni-
tion from him. It may have been that he was absent-minded 1
Perhaps?

I came across the valeted student in my senior year when
I was trying to earn a little by helping him pass an examina-
tion in English. Doubtless his chief, if not his only, interest
in Harvard was clubs and sports. More than one man I tu-
tored failed to pay his bill, perhaps through thoughtlessness,
and perhaps through deliberate intent. Both were unpardon-
able. It was difficult to concentrate upon my studies when

55

56 / Speak for Myself

I was worrying about where my next dollar was coming
from. Once in a ^hile I received a check for writing for a
Boston newspaper, always on my favorite subject of the
theatre; but, whether or not it was forthcoming, I was glad
to have what I wrote accepted for the sake of the experience
and the introductions it brought me. This stood me in good
stead. But for it I never should have gained my start in
journalism after my graduation.

I survived these ordeals of penury, and was graduated with
all my debts paid, owing no money to anybody, except the
few dollars I was able to repay quickly to those who had put
their trust in me. Towards the end of my Harvard time I was
fortunate enough to earn small amounts in this tutoring of
my backward fellow students in English composition and
literature, the only subjects I was qualified to teach, if I had
any claim whatever to be a teacher. Looking from the past
towards the present, I am certain that indigent students of
today must have a much harder time than I had. The term
bill then, payable in thirds, was $150 a year; now it is $400,
making it practically impossible for a young man without
parental help, without savings or income, to go to Harvard.
And in addition the living expenses are now much higher.
And these are the type of young men who most need and
want a college education. But such is the way of the world.
I wonder, as I dwell on the trials of the past, if it is worth
more to go to Harvard in these twentieth century forties
than it was in the nineteenth century nineties.

One of the most disconcerting aspects of a college educa-
tion, at any time, is the extensive bill of fare offered the
student with an appetite for knowledge by contrast with the
little time he has for study and classwork in the fleeting pe-
riod of four years. Whoever has turned the pages of the
Harvard catalogue with its curriculum covering all branches
of literature, languages, the sciences, history and biography,
and all the rest, must be amazed by the vast number of

Harvard Hardships 57

courses offered every year. They cause him to see readily how
difficult and unending is the road to knowledge, and at the
same time how circumscribed is our ability to traverse it.
In this catalogue, for instance, as we turn the pages contain-
ing the lists of courses offered by the Faculty of Arts and
Sciences to students of the college alone, not including the
schools of law, medicine, business and all the professions, we
look along an astounding vista of potential education.

These Harvard courses, each listed with its brief descrip-
tion in a few lines, with the name of its instructor, and its
day and hour of meeting, fill no fewer than 158 pages of
the more than one thousand pages of a recent annual cata-
logue. The courses in all departments, beginning with the
Semitic languages and literature, and ending with sociology,
total 1006. Their range extends from such easily under-
standable themes as instruction in English composition espe-
cially for freshmen to courses bearing the formidable titles
of "Linear Differential Equations of the Second Order" and
"Political and Social History of the Mohammedans to the
Conquest of Selim I." To look at these lists causes the pro-
spective student almost to despair of learning anything,
especially when he notes that the requirements for a degree
are the passing of examinations in only sixteen courses annu-
ally, and that the limit of courses in one year is twenty. The
best decision to make in the face of all this is to do one's best
to storm the breastworks of knowledge as we start on our
campaign of education.

18

Before the Footlights

CERTAIN EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITIES help to diversify the
life of a college student. Since Cambridge is at the very doors
of Boston, it is customary for undergraduates, and graduate
students as well, to attend the theatres across the Charles
River. That is well known, but it is not so well known that
some of them have a passion for appearing on the other side
of the footlights in the humble capacity of supernumeraries
or ' 'supers," as they are called for short. Whenever a star
actor or actress came to a Boston theatre in a play where
extra members of the company were needed to complete the
cast of participants in a mob or otherwise, they would as-
semble at the stage door in the hope of being taken on, even
if for only one performance. The supply was always greater
than the demand, and often the alley leading to a stage
entrance was filled with dozens of students clamoring for
admittance and the possibility of seeing a famous actor at
close range. A few were allowed to enter, and then the door
was closed in the faces of the rejected, who might be accepted
if they returned the next day.

I was not immune from the craze for "suping," and one
afternoon I found myself, with other enthusiasts, in the sub-
terranean dressing rooms of the Tremont Theatre preparing
to go on in support of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. My

58

Before the Footlights 59

part was a verger, a minor church official, in "Much Ado
About Nothing," and in the evening I returned and was ad-
mitted again to appear as a Paris gamin in "The Lyons
Mail/' that glorious old melodrama in which Irving gave
a marvellous impersonation of the dual characters of Dubosc
and Lesurques, the first a murderer and the other a hapless
honest man who resembled him so strikingly that he was
arrested, tried and convicted and guillotined for a crime
with which he had no connection. Later I saw Irving act in
this play at his own Lyceum Theatre in London, and still
later I also saw his son, H. B. Irving, duplicate the success of
his father on the stage of the Colonial Theatre in Boston. As
a matter of fact, "The Lyons Mail" is an "actor-proof" play,
which means that its realistic-romantic acting is not a difficult
task for any accomplished actor.

Since we "supers" were subordinates, we were not allowed
to loiter in the wings, lest we interfere with the members of
the company on their exits and entrances. But I managed to
obtain a few glimpses of the progress of the play and its lead-
ing personages, and I do remember vividly seeing Irving,
who was very near-sighted, handing his glasses to his dresser
whenever he went on the stage, and receiving them back the
moment he came off. Strangely enough, however, I do not
remember Miss Terry as Beatrice. She had no part in "The
Lyons Mail."

Although I have spent many hours back-stage at rehearsals
and performances my readers will learn why in the course
of this story these were my only appearances in public, if
they can so be called, since I was simply one of many
shrouded in the dense obscurity of a mob. Not in all these
years to come did I even once attempt to act in the smallest
capacity, although I have no doubt that my request would
have been granted had I been unwise enough to make it. I
had sufficient sense, which many have not, to reject even the
slightest ambition in that direction, for I knew well that I

6o / Speak for Myself

never could become an actor. I saw too many bad actors to
want to follow in their feeble footsteps.

My early ventures into casual writing were so many and
varied that almost all evade my memory. Only recently, after
I had begun these pages, I came across a bundle of type-
written manuscripts on various themes that had apparently
been rejected and returned one by one, and then cast by me
into the oblivion of a cabinet drawer. About the same time,
as I was looking over a mass of discarded magazines, I opened
their pages to articles bearing my name as author that I re-
called, but to my surprise discovered two efforts at transla-
tion that had apparently pleased an editor. One of these
stories, entitled "The Siege of Berlin/' a translation from
the French of Alphonse Daudet's short story of an imaginary
incident during the Siege of Paris, was prefaced by this brief
editorial explanation: "The following touching story of the
Franco-Prussian War is from the powerful pen of Alphonse
Daudet, and was translated for the Boston Transcript." That
was true, but the editor of this magazine did not take the
trouble to add that I was its translator, that it had been sent
by me to the Transcript, accepted and printed, and that I
was paid a small sum for my work. This happened before
I was connected with the Transcript.

The second of these discoveries of myself as a translator
was a story printed in a later issue of the same magazine,
which bore the name of Romance. It was preceded by these
words in small type: "This simple but touching little sketch
has been translated for Romance by Edwin Francis Edgett
from the German of Marc Boyen." Its title was "My First
Patient," and I looked at it with amazement. I have not the
slightest recollection of having read the story, and least of all
of translating it. I have only a meagre knowledge of the
German language, sufficient perhaps to discover the meaning
of a simple sentence, and I fail to see how I could have had
the assurance to put the story into English; it was good

Before the Footlights 61

English, if I do say so, but of course I do not know the value
of it as a translation. It reads smoothly, and it is possible that
I have forgotten more of the German language and litera-
ture than I am aware of at this late day. There it is, however,
and I suppose that the editor of Romance was right in credit-
ing it to me. But the sight of it remains a surprise and a
mystery.

19

Some Harvard Professors

THIS is CERTAINLY A FITTING PLACE to give the praise they
deserve to a group of members of the Harvard faculty and
its teaching staff who proffered me and others their intellec-
tual aid and encouragement. In those days of the early nine-
ties there were eminent and influential men whose fame ex-
tended and still extends beyond the bounds of the university.
Among them were Francis James Child, master of ballad
lore who had begun his work as a teacher of science and
mathematics, but who later became a specialist in English;
George Lyman Kittredge, an exceptional example of the
scholar who is also an expert and inspiring teacher; Adams
Sherman Hill, widely known as the author of a text-book ori
rhetoric; Barrett Wendell, man of the world as he was also
of the lecture room, and of a most ingratiating individuality;
Le Baron Russell Briggs, youthful in appearance, delightful
in the classroom, and sympathetic as dean; George Pierce
Baker, in the first years of his enthusiasm and unaware of
what the future held in store for him as a teacher of the
drama and leader of the now bygone Workshop 47. Of these
only Professor Kittredge is living, with the addition of Emer-
itus to his title. And then too there were William Lyon
Phelps, for only a year a teacher at Harvard, and soon to
begin his long career at Yale as teacher, lecturer and man

62

Some Harvard Professors 63

of a million friendships; and Charles Townsend Copeland,
whose work and personality are above all praise, and whom
I knew and know best of all.

All these men were teachers in the English department,
but those were also the great days of the philosophy depart-
ment. Among its leaders were George Herbert Palmer, Wil-
liam James, Josiah Royce, George Santayana and Hugo
Miinsterberg. There is nothing I can say to add to their
eminence or their enduring fame. Their world-wide reputa-
tions live after them. But I must say a few words as to how
they impressed me during the brief intervals when I sat
under them in the midst of my regular studies of English.
Professor Palmer was a notable lecturer and teacher, and
the substance of his life and work may be found in his books.
He became the husband of Alice Freeman when she was
president of Wcllesley College, and his account of her life,
her personality as woman and educator, which he wrote sub-
sequent to her death in 1902, after they had been together
fifteen years, belongs in the highest rank of biographical
literature. It is especially significant for its revelation of the
professional achievements and the intellectual spirit of the
kindred souls of a man and a woman. When he sat in his
chair lecturing on logic, Professor Palmer talked to us on a
technical subject so clearly that he made it as living as if he
were speaking of the actualities of human existence.

In his studies, writings and teachings, Professor James em-
phasized the technical aspects of philosophy, his specialty
being psychology, although his best known book, "The Va-
rieties of Religious Experience," is his most lasting piece of
literary work. He was a brother of Henry James, the novel-
ist, and they were the sons of an earlier Henry James, who
was famous as an apostle of the doctrines of Swedenborg, and
who sat in the seats of the spiritually minded mighty. Of the
two sons, some one remarked that the philosopher wrote like
a novelist, and the novelist like a philosopher. There is no

64 / Speak for Myself

question that there is more clarity in the philosophy of Wil-
liam James than in the fiction of Henry James.

The third of this quintet, Josiah Royce, between whom
and William James there were many contentious arguments
on the theory of pragmatism, had come to Harvard from the
University of California, from Johns Hopkins and from
German universities. If I am asked what is meant by that
mysterious word "pragmatism/' I may simplify the definition
given by Noah Webster or one of his successors in his im-
mortal dictionary by telling you that a pragmatist, William
James for instance, believed that the truth must be tested
by practical experience, and that his rival held the opposite
opinion. Professor Royce had attempted a work of fiction in
his younger days, but I think that thereafter he must have
given up forever the idea of continuing with the novel, for
all his later books deal exclusively with such theories of
philosophic thought as "The Conception of Immortality"
and "The World and the Individual."

In appearance Professor Royce was not at all the philoso-
pher, whatever may be our conception of the role, for his
figure was squatty, and in his facial expression and the hand
he wrote he never seemed to have risen to maturity. But
there was nothing immature about his mind, and many a
student prospered by his wisdom and counsel. The fourth,
and the only one of these philosophers I never met, is now
living somewhere in Europe. George Santayana was a con-
spicuous Harvard professor back in the eighties, and as his
name signifies he is of Spanish descent. With "The Last
Puritan" he reversed the procedure of Josiah Royce, and
wrote a novel as he was nearing old age, instead of at the
beginning of his professional life. Hugo Munsterberg was a
later importation from Germany, and suffered under the
stigma of his country's action in the World War.

No remarks about Harvard teachers in those days would be
complete without the inclusion of Charles Eliot Norton, who

Some Harvard Professors 65

was a foremost member of the faculty and a distinguished
man of letters. He was an author, a thinker, a teacher, a
lecturer, and notably a friend and associate of leaders in the
literary world, among them Emerson, Ruskin and Carlyle.
He had begun to go upward on the ladder of business, but
soon abandoned it for the field of intellect and education.
He was a son of the eminent theologian, Andrews Norton,
and a cousin of Charles William Eliot. His principal duties
as a Harvard professor were to preside over classes in the
history of the fine arts, gathering at his lectures many stu-
dents who were laboring under the delusion that they were
what is known as "snap courses," i.e., easy in the examina-
tions, but who when the fatal day came found out to their
sorrow that they had been mistaken. It was Professor Nor-
ton's habit to talk in his lectures about everything under
the sun outside the range of the arts, from politics and sci-
ence to cakes and ale and the musical glasses.

2O

Two Young Teachers

IT WAS MY GOOD FORTUNE to know William Lyon Phelps in
my sophomore year, the only year in which he taught at
Harvard, and this was at the outset of his long career as a
teacher of world-wide reputation. He came to Harvard soon
after having earned his A.B. from Yale, and later he received
simultaneously an A.M. from Harvard and a Ph.D. from
Yale. Through the college year 1891-1892 he was on the
Harvard teaching staff as an instructor in the English depart-
ment, and although he was but two years older than I, the
disparity in our ages seemed much greater then than it seems
now.

Returning directly to Yale from Harvard, he rose rapidly
in the faculty, eventually becoming Lampson Professor of
English Literature, which chair he still holds after having in
1933 joined the ranks of the Emeriti. Age limitations made
imperative the change into semi-retirement, although to him
now belongs the added exceptional honor of the title of
Public Orator. His help to me during his one year at Har-
vard was given while he was one of the instructors in the re-
quired sophomore course in composition known as English
B. Luckily for me, his section of the class comprised those
sophomores whose names began with the first letters of the
alphabet. In companionship with my classmate Lindsay Todd

66

Two Young Teachers 67

Damon, for many years a professor in the English depart-
ment at Brown University, he gave me the highest mark of
A for my work in his course.

Ever since then for nearly fifty years Professor Phelps and
I have kept up a desultory correspondence at the rate of
about one letter a year; but we have never met again, I am
sorry to say. It must be my fault, for he has occasionally come
to Boston on a lecture tour. Our brief letters do something
to fill the gap. This is a portion of one written from New
Haven in 1916:

... I not only have remembered always giving you an "A" in
that course, but I have always taken pride in the fact that I had
sense enough to do it. Only the middle of last week I was talking
with a Boston man and I said that when you were an undergrad-
uate I had given you an "A" in English and it had given me
pleasure every time I had thought of it. I think you are doing
some of the best work of your kind in America today.

I hope I shall not be accused of having a too highly devel-
oped bump of egotism by reproducing this letter.

We were judged in that course by the instructor on the
quality of the themes we wrote, and perhaps one of the rea-
sons why he liked mine was that they dealt mainly with
topics and problems of literature and the drama. Looking
over the original copies of these themes recently, I discovered
that one was an appreciative review of Mrs. Humphry Ward's
then new novel, "The History of David Grieve." I have this
manuscript before me as I am writing these words, and on its
back is this comment (signed "W. L. P."): "This is an excel-
lent theme; perhaps the best you have written in this course;
although all of your work the second half year has been
much better than it was before. You have overcome entirely
your tendency to slop over: you now have a dignified, lumi-
nous style. Your paragraphs are occasionally incoherent."

This theme is dated April 19, 1892, over forty-eight years

68 / Speak for Myself

ago! Its subject was an author upon whom Professor Phelps
later voiced many words of censure. Perhaps he judged it so
favorably because of its evident sincerity; perhaps with the
increasing volume of her work, he grew to dislike her, which
is understandable. I do not want to be so self-satisfied as to
think he was wise in his judgment of me, but I do know that
he was wise in his counsel, that he was a born educator and
not a pedagogue. Harvard should be proud of his connection
with her, and regretful that he left so soon for the woods that
were not fresh and the pastures that were not new to him
at Yale.

The repute of Professor Phelps is not merely as a Yale
teacher, but also as an American lecturer and author. I do
not hesitate to perpetrate a commonplace when I say that
Harvard's loss was Yale's gain, and also the gain of the entire
American public. Now at last we are fortunate in being able
to read his own story as he tells it in his fascinating "Auto-
biography with Letters/' which I do not hesitate to describe
as one of the most diversified and entertaining books of any
kind I have ever read. In the pages in which he surveys the
happenings of his youth he mentions his miraculous escape
from death in a railroad accident, exclaiming: "What a great
deal I would have missed!" Indeed, he would, and the world
would have missed it too.

Two more letters from Professor Phelps seem apropos at
this moment. The first reached me in the midst of the
whirlwind of popularity of A. S. M. Hutchinson's novel:

SEVEN GABLES, HURON CITY, MICHIGAN

8 Sept. 1921
My dear Edgett

I'm very glad we agree (as we so often do) on "If Winter Comes."
What a fine novel it is! I look to him (Hutchinson) as a coming
force and a bringer of happiness.

Ever Yours

WILLIAM LYON PHELPS

Two Young Teachers 69

The other letter refers to my taking him to task in friendly
fashion for omitting one important detail in his professional
life from his biographical sketch in "Who's Who in
America":

YALE UNIVERSITY, NEW HAVEN

22 June 1923
Dear Edgett

I am deeply grateful for the affectionate notice of my book, for
I value highly both your friendship and your good opinion. I am
more pleased than I can say.

I shall send to every future Who's Who both English and
American" 189 1-2 Instructor at Harvard." I am proud of it, and
don't know why it has been omitted. P.S. I see I did put it in the
English edition. It is there!

Yours,
W. L. P.

I should like to include more of his letters, but there is a
limit to all good things.

Also in my sophomore year there was another young and
inspiring instructor who remains in my memory Lewis Ed-
wards Gates. He too read some of my English B themes, and
was of help to me through his advice and kind words of
measured praise. I never saw or heard from him after that
year. I cannot say that I really knew him, for he was shy and
of secluded habits, moods that were mine also. But I do re-
member that he told some of the members of his class in
English composition that he would be glad to see and talk
with anyone who cared to knock at his door at a certain hour
he held reserved for them. The usual happened with me,
for I was foolishly afraid of intruding, and missed my oppor-
tunity. I have all my life regretted my failure to know him
better in the course of his short life in which he strove to
give so much aid to his fellow students, for he himself was
a student as well as a teacher. He has been dead many years.

There is little doubt that Mr. Gates started many a young

70 / Speak for Myself

ambitious writer along the broad highway to success. One
definite instance of this came to me only the other day when
I picked up a copy of Frank Norris's novel, "McTeague," for
the purpose of re-reading it, and discovered, what I had
doubtless known but forgotten, that it was dedicated to "L.
E. Gates of Harvard University." That novel had been pub-
lished in 1899, and this dedication is significant, for in the
briefest possible words it is its author's tribute to the man
who taught Frank Norris much in his struggle to become
a novelist.

Frank Norris had been studying at the University of Cali-
fornia, but because of the handicap of mathematics he left
and came east to Harvard. He elected a special course in
English composition and made rapid progress during 1895-
1896. He was then only twenty-four. Writing, editing, travel,
campaigns as a war correspondent in South Africa during
the Jameson Raid, and in Cuba during the Spanish War
were followed by other literary work until his life was sud-
denly cut short at the very time when he was about to com-
plete his trilogy of the "Epic of the Wheat." He had begun
the writing of "McTeague" before he went to Harvard, but
it was not published until 1899. I read it first when I was
living in London forty years ago; I re-read it the other day,
and while it somewhat too slavishly follows the Zola model
in its super-realism, and will perhaps repel many readers by
its portrayal of one of the most brutal human beings ever
created by a novelist, it is nevertheless a remarkable achieve-
ment for so young a writer. It is a landmark in the progress
of American fiction, and it is fitting that the name of Lewis
E. Gates should be associated with it.

I must close this chapter with a reflection upon the pass-
ing of time as these memories of the last decade of the nine-
teenth century throng my mind. Here am I, with the sur-
vivors of that era rapidly growing fewer, myself still content
in the hope of more years to come. As I go to and fro between

Two Young Teachers 71

Arlington and Boston by street car to take the subway train
at Harvard Square for Park Street, my thoughts inevitably
turn backwards through the fifty years that have elapsed
since I was walking along Massachusetts Avenue daily on my
way between the college and my home in West Somerville.
It was a journey of nearly two miles, and I walked it twelve
times a week for four years. The scene has changed and I
have changed with it, but strangely I do not feel that I am
half a century older. The passage of time is clearly revealed
to my eyes, for along the street where stood estates and
houses of considerable size are the now omnipresent apart-
ment houses in which live hundreds instead of the aforetime
dozens. Stores have also sprung up here and there, large
electric trolley cars have taken the place of the small ones,
and we are in what is a new world, almost another world, a
modern world of the mid-twentieth century. A better world?
Yes, perhaps 1

21

Early Days with Copey

IT WAS IN THE TIME BEFORE those changes had begun that
Charles Townsend Copeland came to Harvard. He made that
short trip across the Charles River preparatory to a fifty
years' residence I am sure he did not anticipate. Ten years
had gone by since he had left the college with his degree of
A.B. Before his entrance into the teaching world he had
served a short term in the literary editor's chair of the Boston
Post, a high-class daily newspaper then known as the organ
of the "kid-glove Democrats." It was not long after his arrival
that he began to be recognized as an exceptional force in
the midst of the group of distinguished teachers that com-
prised the department of English at Harvard. He was then
just past thirty, and he rose by successive stages to become the
Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory. He appealed to
me as a young man, quiet in manner, placid in temperament,
who would make his way steadily in his new profession. He
immediately assembled a small array of students, of whom
I was one.

From the first there was nothing academic about him, no
pose of the beginner who was eager to become a professor.
He talked rather than taught, referring pleasantly to his
brief connection with journalism, mentioning the delights
of receiving all the new books for review, but saying nothing

7*

Early Days with Copey 73

about the drawbacks that made his duties exacting. I did not
foresee that not long afterwards I myself was to join that pro-
fession. He made it apparent that he had come to Harvard
to study as well as to teach. This was the modest beginning
of his long service there, and during all those years he and
I have maintained a close acquaintance and friendship. His
unofficial summons to his classrooms was answered by a select
few who were in earnest, glad that a new and appealing per-
sonality had arrived.

In the most informal manner Copeland met his students.
Sometimes it was a gathering of an afternoon in a small out-
of-the-way room in an upper story of Sever Hall, where in
listening to his reading and interpretation of Shakspeare
and other poets and prose writers, a prophet, had one been
present, might have foretold the days when the largest hall
in Cambridge, Boston, or anywhere, would be far too small
to hold his listeners. At other times, at the early hour of nine
three mornings a week, he invited all who would to meet
him in Sever 1 1 and there read to him so that he might lead
them aright.

Never did that large amphitheatre look more capacious
than at those nine o'clock sessions, with the small figure of
Copeland behind the desk at the bottom of the stepped-up
rows of seats, while scattered above were only a dozen or so
young men, few of whom could read acceptably, but all in
search of the enlightenment they could not obtain elsewhere.
One man after another would read aloud, sadly to discover
his deficiencies of voice and understanding when the passage
was read back to him by one who even then, at the begin-
ning of his Harvard career, was a master proving his mettle.
Although he developed his style in later days before large
audiences he was then the intimate, the personal, the sym-
pathetic reader who made what he was reading shed the
gleaming light of the torch of poetry and prose. Years later,
it became my duty and pleasure to ask Copeland to read over

74 I Speak for Myself

the radio, under the auspices of the Boston Transcript, for
five successive Christmas seasons, thereby bringing himself
and his voice to a wider concourse of listeners.

It should be remembered that all these meetings with stu-
dents in Copeland's early days at Harvard counted for noth-
ing in marks or towards a degree. They were wholly volun-
tary, as were his readings in later years. They added much,
however, to the knowledge and experience of the students.
They were the beginnings of Copeland's desire to make him-
self helpful, they were the tests of the students' willingness
to add to whatever they might gain in more formal classes.
Perhaps that is one reason why these assemblages were so
small at first. Assuredly there would have been many more
then, as there came to be later, if the news of what Copeland
was offering had been more widely circulated. They were the
molehill out of which rose the high mountain of the future.
They remain among the richest memories of a handful of
young men who were glad they were specializing in English
composition and literature when Copeland came to Har-
vard.

These memories have lingered and grown and lasted
through all the passing years. Copeland's early pupils left
Harvard, but Copeland remained for Harvard's good and for
the good of all who came within the sphere of his influence.
Their number was added to rapidly. Far from him as his
students may have drifted, he has remained in the field of
their mental vision. They hear about him, they read about
him, and once a year those who can, gather at the Harvard
Club in New York to hear him read, whenever he is able to
come over from Cambridge, to the members of the Charles
Townsend Copeland Association and their guests. One of
my many regrets is that I have been unable to accept the
invitations I have received to be present on those occasions.
But we have the Copeland Reader and the Copeland Trans-
lations before us whenever we desire to freshen our mem-

Early Days with Copey 75

ories, and to listen to his voice as it seems to come from his
pages. His brief biography of Edwin Booth in the Beacon
Biographies series should not be overlooked or forgotten,
although I fear it has long been out of print. I am glad to say
that I have an inscribed copy of it he sent me at the time of
its publication. The date he wrote on it is December 14,
1901.

Copey on the Radio

ALTHOUGH i HAVE SEEN AND TALKED with Professor Copeland
face to face infrequently, I have had conversations by tele-
phone with him more times than I can remember, and I also
have received many letters from him. After the Transcript
had established its radio station in the spring of 1927, John
Cutler, one of my associates on the Transcript staff, and its
managing editor for several years, came to me and said:
"Wouldn't it be a good idea to get Copeland to give an hour
or so of Christmas readings over the radio from our station,
WBET." To this I responded: "It certainly would, but I feel
sure he won't consent. However, I can try, and I'll write to
him at once," which I did. Several days passed without a re-
ply, and I thought my appeal was futile, but at last came a
telegram from New York in words like these: "I'll do that
broadcast for you, and will make arrangements as soon as
I reach home." There was only a little further delay. The
arrangements were duly completed, and Copeland made his
debut on the radio, after an amusing rehearsal, on the after-
noon of the day before Christmas, from station WBET. He
read the Cratchits' dinner scene from Dickens's "Christmas
Carol," and two of Kipling's poems, "Mandalay" and "The
'Eathen," in the half-hour allotted to him. That was the
period for each of his annual Christmas readings, the second

76

Copey on the Radio 77

again from WBET and the others from WBZ. After that,
they were discontinued at his request, for he did not feel
equal to the task, in spite of the pleasure it gave him. Why
should I not say that the Transcript sent him a check for his
services, and that he returned it with the explanation that
he was glad to give them in the interest of the public and for
the benefit of his friends near and far.

Since I have said that his radio rehearsal a few days before
the first broadcast was amusing, I must tell the story of what
happened that afternoon in the WBET studio. There were
present at the meeting only myself from the Transcript and
two or three men connected with the station the an-
nouncer, the operator, etc. Copeland had called for me at my
office a few doors away, and together we walked down Milk
Street to the First National Bank building. After introduc-
tions, he was asked to sit at the table on which the micro-
phone was placed, while we listened to his voice as it came
from the loud speaker on the wall of the outer room. He
seemed to be a little disconcerted, for this was his first ex-
perience with the radio, but we persuaded him to read or
say something for only a minute or two while the door was
closed between the two rooms.

As we re-entered the room where he was sitting, he looked
up from the microphone and asked anxiously if it had been
satisfactory. We told him that he had been perfect, and said
that he had been heard distinctly, but there was doubt in his
manner and words as he asked plaintively: "Is that so? Are
you telling me the truth?" Even then he did not seem to be
clear in his mind that we had understood a word; but the
repetition of our praise at last reassured him, and he and I
left together after making the plans for his coming in to
Boston at the hour assigned. I was not with
was seated at home at my radio, and the
perfect. I was told later that he created
the WBET studio, and that it was as

78 / Speak for Myself

watch him. A number of reporters came from the newspa-
pers, and they gave him some not-to-be-sneered-at publicity
the next morning. I think he was disappointed because he
received so few letters, but there must have been many who
had listened to him, but who did not take the trouble to
write. That has been the experience of myself and others.

Among the liveliest of my Copeland memories is a rich
recollection of what happened one January morning in 1928.
The scenes were St. Paul's Cathedral on Tremont Street, and
the adjacent Boston Common. He had invited me insistently
to come to his reading at noon in the crypt of that church,
and to write my impressions of it for the Transcript. I ac-
quiesced at last, and we made an appointment to meet in a
Park Street bookstore just around the corner. With me went
E. Bigelow Thompson, then a Transcript reporter, and now
a member of the Christian Science Monitor editorial staff,
in order that he might write a news story of the occasion for
that afternoon's paper. Thompson and I reached the cornet
of Tremont and Park streets in ample time, and standing on
the Common we saw Copeland himself, apparently awaiting
us. Crossing the street, we accosted him, and were met with
the remark: "I thought I told you to meet me at DeWolfe &
Fiske's." We had kept the appointment, to be sure, but not
to the letter of Copeland's commands.

Whereupon, without further objection or conversation,
we crossed Tremont Street and entered the vestibule of the
Cathedral, finding ourselves at once in the midst of a crowd,
mainly of women, with one of the clergymen shepherding
them in their efforts to get downstairs into the crypt, which
was already filled to overflowing. A suggestion was made that
the reading be given in the much larger church, thereby
accommodating everybody who wanted to listen to Copeland,
but he was not receptive to the idea. "I can't read there,"
he said, 'I'm not accustomed to the place." Further argu-
ments were futile, the overflow gathering was forced to go

Copey on the Radio 79

away in no very happy mood, and together we four went
by a circuitous route down across the platform of the crypt
to its floor, where we found there almost at the feet of the
reader two seats reserved for Thompson and myself, with no
other seat in the room unoccupied.

In a few moments, Copeland was seated at the table on
which was his customary array of books, and the reading
began, with the audience giving its rapt attention to the
magic of his voice. For a time the reading proceeded quietly,
and then Copeland, quite naturally, became disturbed by the
noise that came from the feet of shoppers as they went
through a passageway alongside the Cathedral, the sound
coming through half-moon-shaped open windows in the
upper part of the side wall of the room. At last he could
stand it no longer, and stopping his reading he summoned
the Rev. Mr. Peck to his table. A brief colloquy ensued, and
the clergyman called out: "Roland." No Roland appeared,
and the summons was repeated. Still no reply, and then
Copeland said, so that the entire audience could hear: "If
Roland isn't there, Oliver will do." Then the windows were
speedily closed, and the reading proceeded after Copeland
had made the further apposite remark: "It is better to read
to St. John in the desert than to St. Paul in Tremont Street."

Altogether, perhaps because rather than in spite of these
side remarks and interruptions, it was Copeland at his best
and a delightful noon in the crypt. But think of the much
larger number of listeners he would have had if he had been
willing to read upstairs in the Cathedral! My article about
the reading appeared in the Transcript of the following
Wednesday.

Our letters and telephone conversations have been many,
as I have said, and I wish that I were a stenographer in order
that I might have set down some of the latter. They would
be well worth preserving, and would certainly add vivacity
and a revelation of Copeland's personality to my chronicle.

8o / Speak for Myself

Both the letters and the telephone talks might well be made
into a book if they were accessible, but that is impossible, for
they date away back into my first days at the Transcript, and
have continued almost up to the present moment. Here is
one of the first of his letters that came to me only a few
months after my Transcript beginnings, and it was addressed
to me in my capacity as dramatic editor:

29 GRAYS HALL
COLL. HARV. CANTAB.
22nd April 1895
My dear Mr. Edgett,

Will you cause it to appear in your paper not by
way of puff preliminary, but as a mere statement that my little
reading from Hamlet in Sever Hall next Wednesday at half-past
four o'clock will be open to the public? I should offer to send you
tickets if there were any, but how glad should I be to see you
there. I spoke at Bryn Mawr last Thursday upon "Hamlet on the
Stage," and read some scenes from the play. In the course of the
talk I said things about Beerbohm Tree by no means so compli-
mentary to his Hamlet as your interesting critique!

Do state clearly in your article just what changes Daly has
made in "The Critic."

I meant to begin this note by thanking you as the probable in-
spirer or even writer of the very agreeable paragraph in the Tran-
script about my Stevenson piece.

Sincerely yours,

C. T. COPELAND.

The following, as will be seen, bridges the long gap of
over forty-three years.

5 CONCORD AVE.,
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
May 18, 1938
Dear Edgett,

Rather than use the scant amount of energy that I
have at present in thanking you most heartily for what you have
lately done, let me say a general word about what you have been

Copey on the Radio 81

doing for many years. What you did in the radio matter, begin-
ning at Christmas, 1927, and going on, as I remember, for five
years, and all the great encomiums that you have written about
me before that time and since are beyond my ability to acknowl-
edge. But this let me say, that your articles and paragraphs about
me have made me far more widely known and esteemed by thou-
sands of people than would have been my lot without your praise.
I have said just about this thing to Buxton, of the Herald, some
weeks ago; you too, in spite of recognition from other papers and
persons, you too deserve above all others my lasting gratitude.

Think of what you have done for me, and never again fall into
the mood of depression which characterized a letter from you
about two weeks ago. Your reviews and your department of the
Transcript are worth so much to the public, the most intelligent
part of the public, that I think you will find strength to go on for
many more years.

Believe me, with best hopes for your future,
Your faithful friend,

CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND.
EDWIN F. EDGETT, ESQ.

Four months after this, a new management of the Tran-
script decided that it no longer needed my services. Thus
I bring together almost the beginning and almost the end of
our correspondence. But this is, I am sure, if fate is kind to
both of us, by no means the end, which I hope will not be
reached until many more letters have passed between us.

23

About Barrett Wendell

ANOTHER POPULAR and influential professor at Harvard be-
fore, during and after my days was Barrett Wendell. He had
been graduated from Harvard in 1877, and years afterwards
Columbia gave him the well deserved honorary degree of
LL.D. He became an instructor at Harvard in 1880, and
with that title and the higher titles of Assistant Professor and
Professor of English, he taught in the halls of the college for
no fewer than thirty-seven years. His range was wide, for
he wrote textbooks, biographies, a literary history of Amer-
ica, a most useful book on English composition, essays, criti-
cal works and plays. He was the author of an historical drama
entitled "Raleigh," in which at a special performance in
Sanders Theatre he acted the title character.

In his specialty Barrett Wendell was versatile, in his per-
sonality he was unique. Literally, there was none and there
has been none like him at Harvard, and I doubt if anywhere
else. He was pre-eminently a man of distinction in the midst
of other men of distinction. He stood alone among them,
and above many of them. His appearance, even in an era
when men wore beards, with his own beard short and red-
dish, caught and held the attention. His eccentricities, vocal
and otherwise, were extraordinary, and I want it to be under-
stood that in speaking of him so frankly and decisively, I

8s

About Barrett Wendell 83

intend to present him in the most favorable light. His voice
was high and staccato, and sometimes it was not easy to in-
terpret exactly what he was saying. He was well aware of
these peculiarities, for once when he heard himself speak by
means of a phonograph record, I am told he remarked that
he was not at all pleased with the result.

Because the man was what he was, a man by himself, my
recollections of him are sharp, unlike those of some other
men of equal distinction. These memories are exact, vivid
and lasting, and they are still enduring without change. Yet
the man and his voice, even so clearly as I am able to make
a mental picture of him, almost defy description. Words are
inadequate to give a satisfactory vision of him to anyone
who never saw him, or a portrait of him. When he was talk-
ing to his class, or in personal conversation, his vocal man-
nerisms inevitably increased any listener's interest in him
and in what he was saying. He was a living and persistent
question mark. Some students insisted that he was affected
in his speech and otherwise, but I am positive he was not.
It was as natural for him to speak in his own way as it was
to be friendly and companionable. I knew him as well as I
knew any professor, and I always liked him, the man and
the teacher. He helped me, as he helped others, not only in
my studies, but in my passing from class to class. It was an
inspiration to sit before him, to ask him questions, to an-
swer him, to listen to him, to look at him as he walked
through the college yard.

Aristocratic, Barrett Wendell certainly was, for he came
of a New York family of high social standing; but snobbish
he certainly was not, as I well know through my personal
association with him, for I was an ordinary student without
means or influence. He was somewhat portly in figure, but
there was nothing athletic about him, and I never heard that
he had indulged in sports. He was a brother of Evert Jansen
Wendell, whose special interests were primarily in the bat-

84 / Speak for Myself

ties of the Harvard teams and crews, and who was the cheer-
leader that stood in front of the stands and waved his arms
and used his voice so that everybody would be worked into
the proper state of enthusiasm when victory was imminent
or accomplished. He was also a diligent collector of material
pertaining to the stage, and he willed his vast accumulation
to the great collection founded by Robert Gould Shaw and
now housed in commodious quarters on the top floor of the
Widener Library building. Of that more later. And there
was another brother, Jacob Wendell, Jr., who after winning
distinction on the amateur stage, became a successful pro-
fessional actor.

If they chanced to know him, graduates and undergradu-
ates would stop to speak to Professor Wendell when they
happened to meet him in the yard; if not, they would turn a
second glance towards him because they instinctively felt
that here must be a man who commanded respect and atten-
tion. Such striking personalities as his counted for much
among the Harvard faculty, even with the others there who
were his comrades in the cause of learning. It was always a
pleasure and never a task to join him in the classroom,
whether his course was one in English composition or in
English literature, both of which he taught with rare zest,
skill, knowledge and with the especially keen sympathy of
one who himself had sat in the seats of the students.

With Barrett Wendell, we knew that he was at his desk
not as an autocrat of learning, but as a helpful teacher. His
scholarship was thorough, although he had no such reputa-
tion as was Professor Kittredge's in the whole scope of Eng-
lish writing. His touch was as light as his learning was
diversified. He had an abundant sense of humor, and it pene-
trated to the four corners of his room. It was, moreover, a
good-natured humor, and he did not indulge in satire or
badinage to show off his smartness, or to bring derision to a
student. He was frank and honest in everything he said.

About Barrett Wendell 85

Once he asked on an examination paper why in a lecture on
Shakspeare he had combined two plays in the hour allotted
originally to one. A truth-telling student answered that this
had been done for the simple reason that the professor had
been absent from the preceding session, and therefore he
had to do it in order to keep up with his schedule. "Perfectly
right," said Professor Wendell, or words to that effect. Such
was Barrett Wendell, a professor never to forget.

One memory of his gracious kindness persists with me. I
was taking his elective course in English composition desig-
nated as English 12, which required the writing of both daily
and fortnightly themes. If a student wanted to take the ad-
vanced course, English 5, given by Professor Hill, he must
have received the mark of A or B in English 12. I applied
to Professor Hill for admission to English 5, stated my mark
in the preceding course, and was told by him that Professor
Wendell had two grades of B, high and low, and I must find
out from him if mine was a high B. This seemed rather un-
necessary, as there were always high B's and low B's, other-
wise known as B plus and B minus. Nevertheless, I went over
to Professor Wendell's rooms, asked the question as to my
standing, and was told immediately by him, "Tell Professor
Hill that your mark is a high B" which I did, and was there-
fore enrolled in English 5. This advanced course in English
composition did me little good, perhaps through my own
fault, and I do not remember my rank in it, although I should
not be surprised if it were no better than C. The exact truth
is that I could not arouse any emphatic interest in any part
of the cotirse. The effectiveness of those English composition
courses depended upon the efficiency of the teachers. What-
ever I may have achieved in theme-writing at Harvard was
due largely to William Lyon Phelps and Barrett Wendell.

Briggs and Kittredge

No LESS OUTSTANDING were Professor Briggs and Professor
Kittredge, each in his own individual way. I knew them well,
and profited from them, although I was never in a course
under Professor Briggs, since his duties were confined in
large part while I was there to the deanship, which he filled
from 1891 to 1902, prior to his election as president of Rad-
cliffe College. The office of dean is a disciplinary position, but
he was not a disciplinarian in the formal sense of the word.
He was a friend, a counsellor and an adviser to all the men
who were summoned to his office in University Hall, and also
to those who sought him there for aid and counsel. I have al-
ready related the story of his kindness to me when I feared I
should not be permitted to graduate because of my deficiences
in mathematics. He was the best and wisest of deans, and I
am quite certain that he can have had no rival in all the long
period of Harvard history. Among the published results of his
tenure as dean was the writing of several little books whose
contents were drawn from his experiences and personal con-
tacts with students. I recall two of these books entitled
"Routines and Ideals*' and "School, College and Character."
He also amused himself and others with the writing of "Rid-
dles in Rhyme." In appearance he was always extremely
youthful, and at middle age looked scarcely older than the
youngest freshman.

86

Briggs and Kittredge 87

As an entertaining and very much alive professor, George
Lyman Kittredge was unequalled. He was a graduate of the
Harvard class of 1882, and the holder of honorary degrees
from many universities, including Harvard and Oxford. But
he never received a Ph.D., the sine qua non that is the sup-
posed password to a professorial chair. This seems to prove
that that earned degree is not necessarily an index of scholar-
ship, at least in Professor Kittredge's case, for he obtained the
highest possible rank without it. Although he was only thirty-
four at the time I graduated, he seemed to be much older
both in looks and in manner. Perhaps I received this impres-
sion because of the reputation of his enormous learning that
placed him leagues and leagues above me. The number of
his books on Shakspeare and kindred topics had even then
begun to grow, and there are so many of them now that it is
unnecessary for me to give a list of their titles.

Professor Kittredge was an adept at searching into the un-
swept corners of knowledge, one of his books being an his-
torical account and critical study of the ancient annual
record, still in existence, after more than a hundred years of
regular publication, "The Old Farmer's Almanac." Only a
short time ago he was retired from his professorial duties
after nearly fifty years of uninterrupted service in the class-
rooms of Harvard. I say "was retired" advisedly. Doubtless
the younger generation now in control of many educational
institutions does not realize that a man of seventy may read-
ily be a more efficient teacher than a man of thirty. Life be-
gins with many before forty and continues with many after
eighty. President Eliot, most famous of American university
executives, was at the head of Harvard before, during and
after my time, and he served valiantly until his voluntary
resignation in 1909 at the age of seventy-five. And he lived to
enter his ninetieth year, vigorous in mind and body.

The one class presided over by Professor Kittredge in
which I came into close contact with him was English 2, in

88 / Speak for Myself

which we studied Shakspeare from a philological standpoint
rather than as a poet and playwright. The professor's mastery
of his subject was disclosed eloquently at every one of its tri-
weekly sessions, and in his examination papers he made it
evident by the disconcerting nature of his questions. I think
I am not unjust to him when I say that he took too much for
granted. The course was really elementary and not advanced.
Nevertheless, we got a great deal from him, and never before
or since have I added so much to my knowledge of Shakspeare
as under his teaching. If I was humiliated by the mark of C
he gave me at the midyear and final examinations, the fault
was mine. How could a young student do anything impres-
sive in the face of his overwhelming command of his subject?
He could not, I fear, realize the shallowness of our minds
without stopping for a moment to contemplate the depth of
his own knowledge.

As a practical man, Professor Kittredge was also outstand-
ing. English 2 could be taken two years in succession, a differ-
ent group of six plays being read and studied the second year.
Professor Child presided over the class during my first year
in it, and he wasted many precious moments by using the
antiquated method of calling the long roll of attendance at
each meeting, three times a week. He thereby encouraged
students to shirk their work by taking seats in the rear of
the room and then sneaking out of the door the instant he
had given the last name, the fact that he was very nearsighted
making that device easy. The first day under Professor Kit-
tredge's charge, he announced that he wanted a monitor to
check the attendance, and that any member of the class who
would like the position for $50.00 for the year should go over
to University 5, the college office, and apply for it. There was
my chance. I went over immediately at the close of the ses-
sion, my application was granted, and I rejoiced in the $50.00
which was credited on my term bill. Professor Kittredge's

Briggs and Kittredge 89

great intellectual qualities remain with me through all the
years, and I wish I might be able to pay them the full tribute
of homage they deserve.

Thus I end my survey of my Harvard undergraduate years,
but by no means my recollections of them, which are endless.
If by chance I recur to them in the pages that follow, that will
be due to some unexpected resurgence of my memory.

25

Football and Other Sports

FOR A FEW MONTHS following my commencement in June,
1894, my steps were indecisive. In order to have some official
connection with Harvard, I enrolled in the Graduate School,
entering a class in American history under Professor Edward
Channing, then one of the mighty men of the faculty. During
the next few months, I did a little tutoring in English, read
examination papers in Professor Channing's course that
brought me a small sum, and that revealed amazing ignorance
of the elements of the history of our country by altogether
too many men. I wondered why they had taken the trouble
to elect it, except that they were possibly under the not rare
delusion that it was a "snap course." They were mistaken,
and it served them right.

I was also the Harvard correspondent of the New York
Times, my chief duty being the sending over by telegraph of
the scores of each football game in which the Harvard eleven
was a competitor. News of these affairs seemed to the news-
paper and its readers to be much more important than the
academic activities of the university. This football duty of
course necessitated my attendance at a game I loathed, and
I loathed the job too. But I did the best I could with my
reports, although the result was doubtless short of complete-
ness. I knew practically nothing about football, and know and
want to know less now.

90

Football and Other Sports 91

I had never taken the slightest interest in football or col-
lege sports of any kind. I cared so little about them that I
refused to become excited whenever the prestige of Harvard
was threatened by a victory of Yale or any other college, and
many a time I was disgusted by the exhibition of what was
claimed to be loyalty to our alma mater. I remember one
occasion when the large lecture room known as Lower Massa-
chusetts was emptied quickly at the beginning of an hour's
meeting of a course in which we were all enrolled. We were
assembled there in our quest for knowledge, but did we gain
it that afternoon? By no means. Football was more important;
the exodus being made, without the slightest opposition by
the authorities, in order that the team and its associates might
be inspired by cheers from their fellow students, as they
started on their journey from Harvard Square to take part
in the annual game at New Haven. The worst feature in this
action seemed to me to be not the deliberate avoidance of
their duties by the students, but the neglect of the professor
in charge of the class to stop such a disgraceful procedure.
If it be said that that could not be done short of open rebel-
lion, then I say so much the worse for Harvard, its faculty
and the entire student body.

It has always been a mystery to me how it is possible for a
human being man or woman, boy or girl to derive so un-
limited a pleasure from hitting a ball back and forth over
a net; or from chasing another kind of ball after it has been
hit by a certain form of club of varying shape, size and name
around a field so that it may fall into a hole; or from racing,
with ten other men, at the risk of life and limb over what is
called a gridiron in their frantic efforts to make a goal or a
touchdown. Furthermore, the mystery deepens in my mind
as I listen to the loud-voiced rapture of those who are assist-
ing at those games simply as spectators. It might be thought
from their enthusiasm that they were a part of the game.
From the vigor of the players and the demonstrations in the

92 / Speak for Myself

seats it would seem as if they imagined that the destinies of
the world were at stake.

I am also equally mystified over the joy taken by the men
and women who sit at tables with vari-colored cards some
decorated only with spots, to be sure that they slap down at
the proper moments. Yet all over the country, and I suppose
in other countries, both outdoors and indoors, millions of
persons are doing those very things in the name of sport or
games, even though now the call of war is resounding loudly.
If you talk the matter over with a tennis player, a golfer or a
football addict, he will probably tell you that the exercise
and the open air are doing him a lot of good; and conversa-
tion with a bridge player will probably elucidate the remark
that he or she it is usually she is thereby stimulating the
memory and exercising the wits. I have omitted to mention
baseball here because I think that our great national game is
sensible and worth while, even though the interest in it is
too often carried to excess. And if I were an Englishman, I
should doubtless say the same of cricket.

As a matter of fact, all these games or sports are very well
if they are not overdone, as are many other things in life, but
as a rule they go to such lengths in the taking up of time and
the wasting of energy that their exponents become obsessed
with the idea that there is no substitute for them in the way
of healthful exercise and recreation. The space given in the
daily newspapers is eloquent evidence not necessarily of their
value, but certainly of their popularity. Hundreds of thou-
sands of daily readers turn first to the sports pages for their
regular reading. I never look at them. In answer to the plea
in favor of outdoor life, it may truthfully be said that an
equal amount of physical good may be gained by the wield-
ing of shovel, spading fork, hoe, rake or other garden utensil,
and may result in equal satisfaction even if the amateur hor-
ticulturist is not as successful in his results as he desires to be.

In reply to the second claim of the stimulus to the wits and

Football and Other Sports 93

memory of the card or other indoor game playerI myself
was at one time an ardent cribbage and bezique player it
may with equal if not greater truth be said that a large
amount of intellectual exercise may be gained from reading.
To me, a book in the hand is worth any number of tennis
rackets, footballs or playing cards, and all the other ap-
purtenances of those games. But this is, of course, my peculiar
prejudice; and prejudice, as you know, is good for the soul
that may become stagnant without it. Efforts have been made
to lessen the size of incoming Harvard classes, but I have
never heard of any project to debar those young men whose
sole interest in college is centred in sports, clubs or social
activities. I wish there might be one. That is simply another
of my impractical heresies.

To end this discussion, which some of my readers may
think has gone iar enough, I confess gladly that during my
four years I entered the gymnasium but once, and then as a
visitor. I understand that in these modern days a freshman
is compelled to take one course in athletics, such as swimming.
I should not have gone to Harvard had that been the rule in
my day. The very idea of compulsory sports or athletics is too
absurd to call for argument. Neither was I a member of any
of the social societies or secret clubs, Greek-lettered or other-
wise, which so many college men consider an essential part of
their lives, and which they think are necessary to fill their
days and nights with pleasure, gaiety and revelry. The craze
for hazing that had brought the college world into disrepute
had vanished before 1890, yet there survived relics of its ab-
surdities in the initiatory antics of more than one secret
society. I had no desire to submit myself to their public
humiliation, especially after I had noted the ghastly appear-
ance of a friend the day after he had become a member of
one of them, and after I had seen more than one young man
making a fool of himself in street cars and other public places.
These performances, even if I had cared for any of them, took

94 / Speak for Myself

too much money and time, and I had neither to spare. Nor
was I willing to sacrifice myself on the altar of my personal
pride. To make myself voluntarily an ass I apologize to the
ass in the outdoor haunts of man had no appeal to me. Too
often we do that unintentionally among our friends.

My Hour Strikes

DURING THE six MONTHS after my graduation, one of my most
agreeable activities was to write about the theatre for a Bos-
ton weekly paper called The Beacon, for which service I re-
ceived the munificent sum of $5.00 a week, which the editor
was willing to confess would scarcely account for my carfares.
I had been practicing that sort of combined work and pleas-
ure since early in 1889 in the columns of the Cambridge
Chronicle, the East Boston Free Press and the Boston Budget,
with occasional articles in more important papers like the
Boston Journal and the Boston Transcript. Clippings of all
these articles I preserved in scrapbooks that are still in ex-
istence; but it was a habit I finally abandoned before many
more years had passed. Do I wish I had kept it up? Sometimes
I do and sometimes I don't, without being able to give any
reason for those variable states of mind.

As w r ill be seen further on, the work on the Journal and
the Transcript was to result to my great advantage before
many months had elapsed. It was my ambition to become
dramatic editor of a leading daily newspaper, and I found
this casual work on small papers to be admirable prentice
writing, even though it put but little money in my purse. It
gave me free entrance into the Boston tl ^Ves; it enabled me
to voice my opinions and impressions of plays and players;

95

96 / Speak for Myself

and, wonder of wonders, it finally brought me the very posi-
tion I was seeking. I did not have to wait long for the out-
come. Just before the dawn of 1895 my ambition was unex-
pectedly fulfilled.

It was in December of the year of my graduation that my
brightest day, up to that time, dawned, and gladly I gave up
my Harvard and other interests. Many Harvard graduates
seek the yard and all its surroundings frequently, but I have
never attended any Class Day or Commencement exercises
since my own. In all these forty-five years, my only journeys
to Harvard, although I have passed it often, have been for
the purpose of visiting the Theatre Collection in the Widener
Library. I am not bragging about this; I am merely stating
a fact. College and class reunions of any kind give me no
pleasure whatever, and I have never had any time to spare
for them. Some years ago a classmate called on me at the
Transcript and asked me if I would attend one of the regular
class dinners at the Harvard Club in Boston and give them a
little talk about my professional work. That, however, was
the last way to win my consent and attendance. He repeated
the request several times on later visits, but I was implacable,
and at last he gave it up as a bad job. I am glad to be a
Harvard alumnus, and must let those words suffice without
the further glory of being an afterdinner speaker or anything
of that sort.

21

On the Transcript at Last

I MUST GET ON WITH MY STORY, and reject further interpola-
tive ideas that come into my mind. To reach the point at
last, December, 1894, arrived, and with it a new life for me.
My chance came through another's misfortune. Francis H.
Jenks, who had been dramatic editor of the Transcript for
some years, died suddenly on Sunday December i6th. I had
known him slightly, had called on him at his office, and had
done a little writing for him during my undergraduate days.
I read the news of his death in the morning paper of the
next day, and in the first mail of Tuesday I received a letter
from William E. Bryant, dramatic editor of the Boston Jour-
nal, to whose paper I had been an incidental and always a
welcome contributor on matters of the theatre. He asked me
why I didn't apply for Mr. Jeiiks's place on the Transcript,
and told me that he had seen Mr. Clement the day before
and had said a good many good words for me, adding that
Mr. Clement had replied that he would like to see me.

Every word of Mr. Bryant's letter has remained in mind
ever since. Without it as an incentive, I w
into the Transcript that Tuesday
it, however, I took a car at an early

West Somerville, where I was living witrVmy paren(Vjft&}
for something to turn up. I had a

97

98 / Speak for Myself

interview with Mr. Clement in his editorial office, and was
told by him to come in again the following morning when
he would take me down to the business office. For three days
running I repeated that visit, being put off from day to day
until finally Friday morning I was told by the management
that I could have the position and to begin work on Monday
morning. I shall never forget my debt of gratitude to Mr.
Bryant. If he had not written me, the story of my life would
be far different from what it appears in these pages.

Why I was kept waiting, I never could discover, except that
perhaps that was the way they had for preventing me from
thinking they were anxious to obtain my services. The salary
they offered me was small, but I would not have refused it if
it had been half as much, so eager was I to obtain that posi-
tion on the Transcript. I was a young man, and ought to be
made to realize the contrast between my age and Mr. Jenks's.
My first day at the Transcript was the day before Christmas,
and never did I have a more wonderful Christmas, and never
was I happier when it was over and Wednesday came.
I wanted to begin work then in earnest. My first message had
been sent to Miss Evelyn Torrey, who was at that time living
in Worcester, and who became my wife a year and a half
later. This good news to her made the occasion one of double
rejoicing, although I did not see her for several weeks there-
after.

The Monday morning of December 24, 1894, found me en-
sconced in a chair at my desk in the Transcript editorial
rooms, in the very position on the very newspaper where I
had longed to be. There I was to remain, in that position as
dramatic editor, and later as literary editor, with the excep-
tion of my short stay in London and with David Belasco in
this country, during a period of no fewer than forty-four
years until, to give the exact date, September 17, 1938. If I am
ever inclined for any reason, well founded or not, to bewail
any misfortune that might have come to me, I think of that

On the Transcript at Last 99

day and of the days that followed. They counteracted all the
ills my mind was heir to, and those ills were few indeed.

Office work on a newspaper was new to me, but I knew and
understood the quality and quantity of my position. My
incidental experiences as a contributor of newspaper articles,
especially upon the theatre and everything pertaining to it,
stood me in good stead. I took to my duties as though I had
been born to accomplish them. I jumped into the midst of
things, for I had served no apprenticeship as a reporter or in
any other subordinate capacity. An editor I remained, and I
am certain that this is an unusual and remarkable record in
journalism. The greater number of journalists have gone
from one position to another on the same paper, or have
transferred their allegiance through a series of changing
newspapers. Their careers have therefore been more varied
and perhaps more lively and versatile than mine. The aver-
age journalist almost invariably works up through the ranks,
sometimes from the post of office boy, to a reportorial, edi-
torial or occasionally to a proprietorial chair. But I sat there
undaunted and almost irremovable, contented to stay there.
I take no credit for this stability. It was nothing less than
good luck, the good luck that, in spite of some temporary
setbacks, followed me all my days.

28

My Fellow Editors

THE RECORD of the rest of my personal and professional life
is practically the chronicle of my years as a Transcript editor,
with a few interludes in which I was engaged in other under-
takings as a writer without leaving my editorial place. I en-
tered into close association with as congenial and companion-
able a group of associates as could be wished. Day by day we
talked and wrote, each in his own specialty, as happy fellow
workers. The adjoining semiprivate room was the habitat of
Edward H. Clement, the editor-in-chief, who had been there
about twenty years when I arrived. On and off the Transcript
he went through a number of vicissitudes, diverting himself
in his leisure hours by writing plays that were seldom acted,
and painting pictures that were rarely exhibited. In these
avocations he was in the good company of his many news-
paper comrades who are addicted to the vain ambition to do
something aside from their regular professions. Some of us
are not content to walk on level ground, but like to climb
ladders with slight chance of reaching the topmost rung.

Mr. Clement was notably distinguished and impressive in
his personal appearance, and we all liked him. He was, how-
ever, inclined to chase rainbows without realizing that he
would never be able to reach the fabled place where the end
of them touched the earth. There was a curious mental angle

My Fellow Editors 101

in him that caused him to think that he could change the
orbit of the world so as to make it revolve around the sun in
a circle rather than in its normal course of an ellipse. He
would irritate the editorial writers by slight alterations in
their articles that made what they wrote seem illogical. "Why,
Clement/* said one of them to him, "you have made the
Transcript seem to be a fool. If you didn't like the editorial,
why didn't you leave it out altogether?" He became an ardent
anti-imperialist when the Spanish War aftermath was an al-
most universal cause of contention, and he would give his
editorial approval to such reforms as an ti vivisection and
woman suffrage so illogically that even those in favor of
them did not second his methods of argument. Nevertheless,
we were all regretful when he was replaced by another, re-
maining for a time in the writing of miscellaneous features.

Later years brought into the editorial chair a succession of
experienced journalists that included Robert Lincoln O'Brien,
who was first a Transcript reporter and then for a long period
our Washington correspondent; later he went over to the
Boston Herald, and eventually became chairman of the
United States Tariff Commission by appointment of Presi-
dent Hoover. Following him in sequence came Frank B.
Tracy for a brief period, James T. Williams, Jr., for thirteen
years beginning in 1913, and then up to a few years ago
Henry T. Glaus, who had begun his Transcript career in
1905 as an assistant in the school and college news depart-
ment. These editors had especial full charge of the super-
vision of the daily work on the editorial page and the staff
of editorial writers.

The editorial writers, under the direct supervision of the
editor, are the men on a newspaper staff who comment day
by day upon the affairs of the world from China to Peru, as
Dr. Johnson would say, and thereby are "moulders of opin-
ion." On the Transcript these were in my early days Edward
W. Hazewell, son of a former Boston newspaper writer of

102 / Speak for Myself

conspicuous reputation; Ebenezer Nelson, who died soon
after my coming and was succeeded by Robert G. Fitch, well
known in the local world of journalism, and who had been a
fire commissioner of the city of Boston and also editor of the
Boston Post; and Edward E. Edwards, a humorist who for
many years wrote in addition to his editorial articles the joke
paragraphs headed "Facts and Fancies," and who at the time
of his death in 1905 left a supply of them in manuscript that
lasted four weeks. He had had a picturesque newspaper life,
having begun work in the pressroom of the Transcript in the
early sixties, leaving to enlist in the Union army, and there-
after going through the mill successively as proof reader,
state house reporter, and editorial commentator, eventually
to become dramatic editor in my place when I went to Lon-
don in 1899. He was my constant luncheon-companion for
some time, and parenthetically it may be said that he was
by no means as solemn as he looked.

The staff of editorial writers was at that time completed
by a young woman, Minna Caroline Smith, who was as good
a companion as the others. Her special duty was to write
brightly and lightly on the odds and ends of topics that were
supposed to be too trivial for the masculine brain. The music
critic was William F. Apthorp, an expert of national reputa-
tion who also wrote the valuable and entertaining notes for
the Boston Symphony Orchestra program. When Mr. Ap-
thorp left Boston some years afterwards to make his home in
Europe, he was succeeded in this latter task by Philip Hale,
for many years the bright and shining light of the editorial
page and of the music and drama departments first of the
Boston Journal and later of the Boston Herald. The art
critic was William Howe Downes, a man of rare facility in
his specialty, and the literary editor was Charles E. Hurd,
whom I was to replace six years afterwards, and of whom I
shall have something more to say hereafter. I was the young-
est of them all, not yet twenty-eight. Changes in this group

My Fellow Editors 103

of course came with the passing years, but it is notable that
many of them remained into the days of the World War. Mr.
Downes, thirteen years my senior and long among the re-
tired, is the only one who remains on the earth with me.

Another member of the staff, not there during my first days,
was Joseph Edgar Chamberlin, who wrote The Listener
column for years, and who later added to it another personal
survey mainly of outdoor life called The Nomad. I venture
to say that we had hundreds of readers who took the Tran-
script for the main purpose of reading and following his
mental reactions. He was on the Transcript, with occasional
intervals of absence, to the end of his long life of over eighty
years. In his younger days he had been connected with several
newspapers, some of them as far away as Chicago. He was a
perfect example of the journalist who has never gone to col-
lege, but who was better equipped for his work, wiser, more
cultivated, more skilful in his writing, more capable in every
way, than have been thousands of others in his profession.
He wrote the history of the Transcript that was published in
book form in our centenary year of 1930.

N earing the End of an Era

WHEN i BEGAN MY WORK as dramatic editor, motion pictures
were unknown and unheard of except possibly in inventive
minds that had a far-away vision of them. I was present in the
audience at Keith's Theatre when the first one was displayed
in Boston as a minor feature of the regular vaudeville pro-
gram. This must have been in 1897 or 1898. As was customary
for some time, nothing but scene pictures was given on the
screen; then at last came the pictures presenting the action of
plays; and finally the silence was broken by the intervention
of the human voice and other sounds. But all these develop-
ments came after I had left the dramatic for the literary
editor's chair. That change was to my advantage, for I had
been concentrating my activities and attention upon real
plays on a real stage as they were acted by real actors, and
did not care for the shadowy illusions of the screen. I am sure
I could not easily have accustomed myself to the transfer
from persons in the flesh to images of persons portrayed by
means of a film, a camera and a screen.

My reminiscences of those early days deal only with the
theatre as it was in the epoch when the stage was a stage. At
that time the most important dramatic fare was furnished by
the stars, the travelling companies of Augustin Daly from his
theatre in New York, of Charles Frohman from the Empire

104

N earing the End of an Era 105

Theatre and of Daniel Frohman from the Lyceum Theatre,
to mention only a few. The epoch of Edwin Booth had not
long before passed, but Sir Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Beer-
bohm Tree, John Hare, Charles Wyndham and a few others
were still coming to us from England. We were seeing the
new plays by Sir Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones and
their comrades in dramatic arms. In Boston we had also the
famous permanent company at the Boston Museum, and the
new twice-a-day stock company at the Castle Square, with the
vaudeville and burlesque houses to supply us with a cheaper
and diversified entertainment.

My own part in all this was to follow the course of events
day by day, to record them in the pages of the Transcript de-
voted to the drama and music, and to attend, with the aid of
the staff who were glad to substitute for me, the opening
performance of every new play, or its revival, that came to
any of the Boston theatres, then about a dozen in number. I
recall all this with a regret that is strong despite its futility.
There is no sense in mourning over the things that are dead
and gone, over the things that can return only when memory
brings back echoes of the pleasure they used to give us. Per-
haps our world now is better than our world then, but in any
event it is still our world.

During my regime, we would give in the Transcript any-
where from one to half a dozen columns every day to the
theatre and its doings, with a special page or two on Saturday.
For reviews of operas, the symphony orchestra and other con-
certs, and an occasional play, I had the expert assistance of
Mr. Apthorp, whose work was as a critic, without editorial
functions, and I would look after everything else. Of course
I oversaw daily the make-up, or arrangement, of my articles,
going up into the composition room for that purpose. I
wonder as all this surges through my mind that I did it so
easily, and that I enjoyed going to the theatre so often. Three
or four times a week was my schedule, but that would be too

io6 I Speak for Myself

much for me now, not merely because I am older, but also
because the theatre and all about it is not the same theatre.

Its entire aspect has changed. The new plays have become
"abstracts and brief chronicles of the times/' a phrase which
as Shakspeare used it refers not to the plays themselves but to
the actors in them; the technique and the personnel of the
dramatic companies have changed into something almost un-
recognizable in my eyes. In those days when I looked at the
names of the players as they were set down in print on a
program or in the newspapers, there was scarcely one I did
not know either personally or as a member of his profession;
nowadays as I look at such a list, there is unlikely to be one
who is not a stranger to me. There is nothing remarkable
about this happening during the passage of almost fifty years,
and it now seems fortunate for me that I forsook the world
of the stage for the world of books. I do not have to leave my
home so often, and return there some time after midnight.

Coincidences in the names of the men on the Transcript in
its several departments from year to year are worth noting. At
one time three pairs of these bore the unusual combination
of Edwin Francis for their given names, and all are no longer
there. These are Edwin Francis Hathaway (always referred
to as Ned Hathaway by his associates), who antedated me in
his service, and who for many years was head of the sub-
scription department in the business office, and who was
forced out at the beginning of a new management in 1936;
Edwin Francis Melvin (popularly known as Eddie Melvin),
who was H. T. Parker's assistant and who succeeded him as
dramatic editor, but who was summarily discharged by letter
in 1936 while he was away on his vacation; and myself, who
in 1938 was told to depart at a moment's notice. So gracious
were the manners of our latter-day employers! And in addi-
tion, there were two Fred Aliens, two Fred Youngs and two
George Sargents at the same time. George Sargent is men-
tioned by me later; and Fred Young was until lately the

N earing the End of an Era 107

veteran superintendent of the pressroom. Another of my
special friends was Arthur H. Hay ward, our accountant and
auditor, a collector of and lecturer on antique lamps, and
author of a valuable book on that subject. He too was one of
the victims of peremptory dismissal.

So many changes were made in the personnel and scenes
of the Transcript that if any of my early companions were to
return to this sphere, they would not recognize the place
where they had long been working. I was moved from one
room to another from time to time, but about half my years
were spent, with my secretary, in a room at the front of the
fifth floor of the Milk Street building, across the way from
the side wall and sloping roof of the Old South Meeting
House. Many vicissitudes brought about other violent changes
in the structure and arrangements of the two buildings, which
were finally joined above the street floor by means of an ex-
tension over the alley, where they appeared to stand as a pair
of inseparable Siamese twins. With my department, I was
one of the first to be moved into the rear building, which
stands on the site of the birthplace of Benjamin Franklin.

Strange to say, the Transcript never had, as have all news-
papers of equal standing, an adequate library, and we were
thereby greatly handicapped in our work. What few reference
books we had were scattered about the buildings, some of the
most important in my room, some in the city editor's and
telegraph editor's rooms, and others in a room that was for
courtesy's sake called the library, but which was incomplete
and ill arranged. Upon its clippings in envelopes much labor
had been spent, but they were never up to date and were
difficult of access. We never had a specially trained librarian
who had grown up in the profession. Except for a few recent
annual volumes the files of the Transcript from its beginning
in 1830 were kept far away in a storage warehouse!

3O

Our Managing Editor

IT NOW BECOMES one of the pleasantest moments in the writ-
ing of these pages to speak of one man who, on my arrival
there, was going through an introductory period that was
finally to place him at the head of the entire management of
the Transcript. He was George S. Mandell, grandson of
Henry W. Dutton, leader of the firm that established the
paper in 1830. After his graduation from Harvard in 1890,
Mr. Mandell began a course of training for the purpose of
familiarizing himself with all the details of newspaper work
and organization. He was made the managing editor soon
after my coming, and that title he held during the remainder
of his life, succeeding his father, Samuel P. Mandell, as presi-
dent of the Boston Transcript Company at the latter's death.
The elder Mandell had married one of the Dutton daughters,
and for many years the paper was owned, but not controlled,
by her in association with her three sisters and a sister-in-law,
widow of a son who had died early in life.

To speak about George Mandell is to speak about one who
was the comrade and friend of us all, from the composition
room on the top floor through all the departments down to
the pressroom in the basement where the paper was printed
and mailed. After the great Boston fire in 1872, in which the
Transcript Building was destroyed, a new structure was

108

Our Managing Editor 109

erected covering its old ground on Washington Street, with
the inclusion of an additional narrow lot on the corner of
Milk Street. Its interior has been altered by the taking down
and putting up of partitions many times, through these many
years, the building in its rear on Milk Street before men-
tioned being acquired in the nineties, with its floors and
rooms taken over from their renters as more space was needed
for Transcript uses. The paper now utilizes the whole with
the exception of the ground-floor store.

All this was the region over which Mr. Mandell had full
authority. No, this word is not accurate. He presided over it
carefully and inconspicuously. None of us will ever forget
his cheery "Good morning" whenever we encountered him,
whether at his desk, or hurrying through the buildings on a
mission from one floor or room to another. Elevators seemed
unnecessary for him, for he always rushed up or down stairs.
For generosity, kindness, helpfulness and good will, his equal
could not be found. Again and again I have reason to re-
member his graciousness and his desire to make any request a
question and not a command.

He came to me one day with just such a question: "How's
your heart?" My reply naturally was, "All right," for I had an
inkling of what was coming. It was another question. "What
do you say to putting on the first page of the Book Section a
review of a book about horses I will write, with some pic-
tures?" "Of course I think it is a good idea," I said, "for I
want to diversify the Book Section as much as possible."
"Then I'll write the review and lay out the pictures for you."
And he did, but he would not allow the review to be signed,
even only with his initials. "No, no," he said, "there's no
need of it," and that was always his attitude whenever it was
suggested that his signature should appear in the paper.

Mr. Mandell's recreative specialty was horses, of which he
had a large stable on his country estate in Hamilton, where
at one time he held the position of Master of Fox Hounds in

1 1 o / Speak for Myself

Essex County. Even after he had lost two sons, one in the
aviation forces of the World War, and the other by an acci-
dent in a polo game, his liking for horses did not abate, and
I was surprised when he told me that he would like to review
a book on polo. He had a bad fall from a horse that laid him
up for several weeks, and resulted in a temporary lameness
that did not, however, delay his speed in climbing the stairs.
While he was in my room one day on an errand, I said to
him: "Mr. Mandell, why don't you telephone me when you
want to see me, and I'll come down at once." "No, thank
you," he replied, "I'm still able to get over the stairs, and
besides you have more work to do than I have." That was
George Mandell, or "G. S. M.," as he was generally called.
My stories about him are many, but these must suffice. He
died suddenly one Saturday afternoon in August, 1934, his
body being found lying on the ground under a tree on his
country estate in Hamilton.

31

Aboard for London

AFTER FOUR AND A HALF YEARS on the Transcript as dramatic
editor, my wife and I went to London in response to a sum-
mons from my friend Walter Smith to assist him in the edi-
torship of a weekly illustrated newspaper somewhat of the
type of The Graphic, the Illustrated London News, and The
Sphere, this last a comparatively new journal founded and
edited by Clement K. Shorter. Walter had gone over to Lon-
don a few months after his graduation from Harvard, and he
had quickly formed a connection with the publishing house
of George Newnes, Ltd., eventually becoming editor of the
American edition of the Strand Magazine. The new paper,
The King, was his idea. It was definitely worth while, but
competition and rivalry proved too much for it, and it ex-
pired shortly, but not until after we had returned home, per-
fectly satisfied that our London experiences had not been
longer. Catching a great deal of Walter Smith's enthusiasm
for the scenes and life of the British capital, I had had a desire
to live and work in London, and in spite of my quick return
home, I am not sorry to have the advantage of pleasant mem-
ories of our stay there. After our departure, Walter remained
with the Newnes publishing house for some time, but he
finally changed his alliance to join Cassell fc Company, the
London book and magazine publishers, with whom he be-

112 I Speak for Myself

came chief editor, making many more friends in the English
literary and journalistic fields.

Shortly after going over to London in the fall of 1894, Wal-
ter was followed by the young lady to whom he had become
engaged while he was a student at Harvard Martha Eliza-
beth Fletcher, daughter of a physician in Pepperell, Massa-
chusettsand they were married at Stoke Poges, amid the
romantic scenes of Gray's * 'Elegy in a Country Churchyard."
Subsequently he served the Transcript for several years as
London correspondent on bookish matters, being one of a
succession of English newspaper writers, each of whom was
an able worker in his field. At one time the Transcript pub-
lished regular literary letters from England, France and Ger-
many, but at last they were abandoned when financial re-
trenchment became necessary. They were among the most
valuable and essential features of the Transcript that made it
a substantial literary authority under my direction. The Paris
letters were written by Alvan F. Sanborn, who served as our
general correspondent there for many years. After the out-
break of the World War, Walter Smith returned to his native
country with his family, engaging in free-lance work until his
invalidism and death in 1930. His home a part of the time
was in New York, with occasional visits to his wife's old home
in Pepperell, Massachusetts.

Both of us, my wife and I, found no small enjoyment in
the novel and changing diversities of London life, and by its
contrasts with the American ways we had been accustomed to
through all the preceding years of our existence. But my work
did not please me, and not long after our arrival we deter-
mined that we would grasp the first opportunity to go back
home. We kept in mind our plans to return, awaiting a
longed-for prospect that finally came. For months to come we
were in the midst of an exciting era in the history of Eng-
land, for it was the period of the outbreak of the Second Boer
War, and it took the British some time to adjust themselves

A board for London 113

to the idea that the South African farmers were a valiant
fighting people that could not be conquered in a month. For
instance, when the news of the relief of Mafeking, after its
long siege, reached London in the course of a night, they
were as frantic with joy as if they had made a conquest of the
whole world. Cheering crowds walked and rode atop the
buses and in hansom cabs, making a tremendous din through
the rest of the dark hours and all the ensuing day. Then at
last they quieted down, became normal, went on with the
war, and at last won victories that meant peace resulting in a
new and reconstructed South Africa. When anybody since
then has commented to me about the imperturbability of the
British, I always have something emphatic in denial of that
assertion.

32

First Impressions of Our New Home

A GLANCE AT THE BEGINNING of these London months of ours
carries me back to the day when we left New York aboard the
American liner New York. It was Wednesday morning July
12, 1899, and exactly a week later when we went on deck
after breakfast we saw rising out of the sea far towards the
eastern horizon the pillar of Bishop's Rock lighthouse on the
outermost of the Scilly Isles. I had not imagined that the sea
for an entire week could be so empty. We had seen only a
few vessels of any kind during the voyage, and none was near
enough for us to signal. By noon of that Wednesday we were
abreast of Bishop's Rock, and soon were steaming past Land's
End. All that afternoon we were coasting along the southern
shores of England, much nearer than I had thought we could
venture. Not far east of Land's End we saw the topmasts of a
steamship above the waters close in to the shore, and were told
that it was the wreck of the Paris, our sister ship of the Ameri-
can Line which only two weeks previously had run aground
on the reefs called the Manacles.

As the evening lengthened I was surprised to notice the
long continuance of daylight, until I remembered that we
were some ten degrees further north than the latitude of New
York. Later during the London midwinter we had the oppo-
site experience of twilight coming on a little after three in

114

First Impressions of Our New Home 115

the afternoon. We passed the red flashing light on the Needles
at the southwestern end of the Isle of Wight, and after voyag-
ing slowly up the Solent and into Southampton Water, we
docked at about one o'clock Thursday morning. Remaining
aboard till after dawn, little sleep coming to us amid the ex-
citement of being in a strange land, we took the regular boat
train at about eight, making our first stop just outside Water-
loo Station in London in order that the guard might open
the doors of the carriages to take up our tickets. He could not
walk through the train and its compartments for that purpose.

Among our first impressions of the novel English scenes as
we sped through Hampshire and Surrey on our way to Lon-
don were the fields of grain (the English call it "corn," which
to us means Indian corn or maize) with bright red poppies
sprinkled in their midst. Something else strange to our Ameri-
can eyes were the solid brick or stone farmhouses and other
buildings in both town and country. There was no wooden
structure anywhere. Forests are too sparse in England to allow
their wood to be used for building purposes. During a year
in London and its suburbs we never became accustomed to
the uniform line of its streets enclosed in nothing but
brick houses and blocks of all sorts of color. The buildings
of course had all been darkened by the atmospheric effect of
the passing centuries and the results of the soft-coal grime
mingled with the dirty fog. A red brick building was so rare
that the adjective "red" was always used in referring to it. If
I ever go to London again, which is unlikely, its peculiar
odor will rise to my nostrils as I approach its outskirts. It still
lingers in my memory, and I am quite sure there is nothing
like it anywhere in the world.

We lived in London in what are known as "lodgings,"
which means in our case that we had two rooms in South
Hampstead at the foot of its famous heath, and on the north-
ern edge of the district called St. John's Wood. Few English
novelists dealing with suburban scenes fail to mention this

1 16 I Speak for Myself

section of greater London. It is now a checkerboard of streets
bordered by houses in blocks, detached or semidetached, be-
hind brick walls of varying heights, but in ancient days it had
contained enough trees to justify its name. One of the rooms
in our lodgings was on the ground floor raised by a flight of
outdoor steps above the street level, and approached through
an entrance gate. This room served as a combination sitting
and dining room, and the other room was our chamber on
the top floor up two flights. Both were commodious and in
the front of the house.

These rooms were heated in winter by soft-coal fires in
open grates and were comfortable. The gas chandelier in the
dining room was a curiosity to us, for it could be lowered to
bring its light nearer to the table, and raised again when arti-
ficial illumination was not necessary. We often wondered
how it was constructed so that it would not leak and asphyxi-
ate us. Many a winter morning did we look out into the
blankness of the fog and see no signs of habitation across the
street. The London fog is by no means the clean gray fog of
the New England coasts, but a dark substance mingled with
the smoky London atmosphere. I have been on a morning
bus going from the Swiss Cottage station in South Hampstead
towards the City, about a four-mile journey, when the con-
ductor was obliged to walk beside the horses to prevent them
from climbing up on the sidewalk, or from turning around
the corner into every side street. And so damp was the winter
air that many who ventured out into it would wear mouth-
mufflers to keep it from penetrating into their lungs. Yet I
was told by some of our acquaintances that our winter in
London was not very foggy!

Living in lodgings in London gave us our rooms and serv-
ice for thirty shillings a week, the meals being cooked in and
served from the kitchen in the basement by a maid who
would apologize if she inadvertently came into the dining
room without the badge of her profession her cap. Her name

First Impressions of Our New Home 1 17

I am amazed that I remember it was Emma Berry; but it is
not surprising for me to recall that her mistress bore the dis-
tinguished surname of Marlowe. She once made the remark
that she was glad to realize she was not a lady, which was per-
fectly proper from the English class point of view. The food
was ordered and supplied at our expense, and we still have
the account books that were rendered once a week in which
were entered the regular and incidental charges, the latter
including fivepence for each scuttle of coal used in the fire-
place, and fivepence more weekly for the castor of condiments
on the table. It was really an economical way to live, and it
gave something of the convenience of housekeeping with lit-
tle of its bother and responsibilities.

33

Some London Scenes

LIFE IN LONDON had its amenities and humors to gratify us at
the moment and to fill the treasury of our memories. The
front-door handle did not turn to enable us to enter our
home, as do the handles of American front doors, but was
stationary midway across the panel. There was no knob over
the keyhole, and the key itself was so huge, literally, that I
was compelled to carry it in an upper vest pocket instead of
on my key ring. All this reminded me of Gilbert and his lines
in "Pinafore," where we are told by Sir Joseph Porter about
his youthful labors long before he became First Lord of the
Admiralty:

When I was a lad I served a term

As office-boy to an Attorney's firm.

I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,

And I polished up the handle of the big front door.
I polished up that handle so carefullee
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee.

The surroundings of these lodgings at 29 Fairfax Road,
South Hampstead, N.W. (so ran the post-office address), were
a bit of old suburban London. There was a long block of
shops next door where we could make small purchases of
almost everything necessary to the maintenance of a house-

118

Some London Scenes 1 19

hold. There was the chemist (druggist), the wine and tea mer-
chant (grocer), the greengrocer (vegetable dealer), the news-
man (periodical dealer and stationer), the purveyor of meats
or butcher (provision dealer), the fishmonger (fish dealer),
and the ironmonger (hardware dealer). It matters not what
we call them, the English and the American designations are
all equally understandable.

Of course there was a post office near by. One post office
indeed? There were no fewer than six post-office stations al-
most at our very doors. Some of these gave complete service,
and in others the postal banks and telegraph service were not
included. But certainly six where we could buy postage stamps
and mail letters were a convenience unknown in this land.
Moreover, there were five or six deliveries of mail a day, the
last at half past nine in the evening. It humiliates me to con-
fess that in Arlington, the Boston suburb where we live in
this year 1940, about the same distance out of town as was
South Hampstead, we are lucky if we have two deliveries a
day. And the post office is about a mile away, and much fur-
ther from other residences. And in addition, deliveries of
milk were made at our London lodgings several times morn-
ing, afternoon and evening.

The newspaper office in Catherine Street, just off the
Strand, where I worked after removals from two temporary
quarters a short distance away, had been a residence in the
heart of London. It contained a bathroom on the third floor,
and other housekeeping conveniences. Unhappily for me,
since I spent an entire winter in London, the fireplace was at
the further side of the spacious room from my desk, and I
would be compelled frequently to jump out of my chair to
warm my hands at its blaze in order to be able to hold my
pen or tap my typewriter. Not far from our offices were many
theatres, but I had little spare time to enter them, although I
did manage to see Henry Irving in his own Lyceum Theatre,
and Beerbohm Tree at Her Majesty's Theatre a little further

120 I Speak for Myself

away. The Gaiety Theatre was at the Strand corner of Cath-
erine Street, and the Drury Lane Theatre (its official name
was Theatre Royal, Drury Lane) was at the upper end of the
street, and not on Drury Lane, upon which its rear abutted.
But since the district was known as the Drury Lane district,
its name was pertinent.

The costermongers came from the country into London
every morning to dispose of their vegetable, fruit and flower
wares at the Covent Garden Market, which filled a large area
on one side of which stood the Theatre Royal, Covent Gar-
den. They drove a little animal of the donkey species hitched
to their carts, or barrows. He was called a "moke," and the
first time I heard his bray through my windows, I thought
there must be an iron foundry in full operation near by, but
was quickly told by my office-mate that the noise came from
the small and inoffensive animal I had seen in the streets.
Frequently I would hear from the sidewalk (''pavement,"
they call it in London) a reiterated word that sounded like
"Mink." Careful researches resulted in the disclosure that he
was saying "Meat," and that he was a vendor of meat for cats
in a business district, if you please, that still contained
many dwellings of the lower order, for the Drury Lane sec-
tion was then the harborage of a nest of slums.

34-

Homeward Bound

OUR STAY IN LONDON ended on September 15, 1900, the fourth
anniversary of our marriage, and a little less than fourteen
months after our arrival. It was one of the happiest anniver-
saries of our united lives, for were we not going home? Both
of us were glad to leave, although we were also glad that we
had been there. Since that day we have made a division of our
lives into two parts, before London and after London, and
now the latter is much the longer. We took the boat train
from London at the Euston Station to Liverpool at noon,
finding ourselves exactly four hours later at the Prince's
Landing Stage on the banks of the river Mersey, our luggage
having been checked directly through to Boston so that we
had nothing to do but go aboard the steamship. Except for
slow-ups at a few stations and junctions we had gone through
at the rate of fifty miles an hour without a stop.

We have never been on such a comfortable and smooth
railway journey. The English trains are light, and they glide
along with an easy swaying movement, with none of the
bumping and jerking so common in this country. Of Liver-
pool we saw practically nothing, and from the moment of
our departure down the Mersey we were enshrouded in a
continuous thick fog. All that evening and all day Sunday
we were steaming along through the Irish Sea and out into

122 / Speak for Myself

the Atlantic Ocean without catching a glimpse of the coasts
of England, Wales and Ireland. It was altogether different
from our approach to England the year before, when we saw
everything there was to see from ship to shore. Our boat, sail-
ing direct from Liverpool to Boston, was the Devonian of the
Leyland Line, on her first voyage across the Atlantic. Some
fifteen years afterwards she was torpedoed by the Germans.
Towards the end of our stay in London, David Belasco
brought over Mrs. Leslie Carter for an engagement at the
Garrick Theatre in his sensational play known as "Zaza,"
and with them came Charles Emerson Cook, an old friend
and college associate of mine who had been with that emi-
nent playwright and producer for some time. Through him I
was engaged to join the Belasco forces in the business and
touring departments, but within less than a year I became
again a Transcript editor. About two months after we landed
in Boston, I started out as advance agent and publicity man-
ager on tour with one of Belasco's companies giving a double
bill of "Naughty Anthony" and "Madame Butterfly" that
took me as far west from New York as Nebraska, and back
east to Richmond, Indiana, where the tour w r as suddenly
closed because of "bad business." How it lasted even that
long, I fail to understand. Our next stand after Richmond
was to be the Cincinnati Opera House, but it was destroyed
by fire in the interim, which gave the management a chance
to end the tour gracefully. Thereby my brief career with
Belasco as a theatrical press agent came to a close. But I was
not quite through with him, and before this part of my
chronicle is over I shall try to paint a verbal portrait of him.

Return from the West

DURING MY TRAVELS for Belasco, the longest journey I have
ever taken in this country, there is little to record other than
the day-by-day sights and sounds that met my eyes and ears as
I passed from city to city, always a week ahead of the com-
pany, and doing my best to inform prospective theatre-goers
of its coming, not necessarily with "the greatest show on
earth," but nevertheless with something entertaining. Among
the episodes that stick in my mind was the Sunday afternoon
in St. Louis, on the eve of my departure for Kansas City,
when I received a telegram informing me that the train bear-
ing the company from Columbus, Ohio, was delayed, and
that consequently the curtain could not rise on the perform-
ance until nine o'clock. My part in this comedy was to go to
the railroad station and arrange for the transportation of
scenery and baggage to the theatre immediately on the arrival
of the belated train. This I did, and the play began an hour
late, the audience being compelled to wait with more or less
impatience. It may be necessary for me to explain that the
theatres in midwestern cities were open seven days in the
week, and that Sunday performances were a commonplace
there.

One peculiar thing I remember was
from our furthest west destination,

123

1 24 I Speak for Myself

braska, I had gone through the entire Midwest without visit-
ing either Chicago or Cincinnati, in which cities I have never
been. What of it? I am neither richer nor poorer because of
that. I stayed in St. Louis an entire week, and that was long
enough for me, for it is the smokiest city I have ever been in,
with the exception of London. Among the pleasant cities I
visited were Rochester, Buffalo, Kansas City, Omaha and In-
dianapolis. My longest continuous ride was an all-day jour-
ney one Sunday from Columbus to St. Louis, through a part
of Ohio and across the entire breadth of southern Indiana
and Illinois, which in the dead of winter offered me one of
the gloomiest series of vistas from a car window that I have
ever seen. It was nothing but a wilderness, with only a tiny
settlement here and there.

On my return journey from Davenport, Iowa, to Jackson-
ville, Illinois, I took a train on the C., B. 8c Q., whence I
changed at a small place for another route eastward on the
Wabash Railroad. This town was Chapin, and it may have
grown up since; but then I could see the whole of it from the
station, where I spent three awful hours, my view including
nothing more than two or three stores, a few houses, a post
office and an opera house! While I was in Davenport, I
wanted some cigarettes, and going up to the hotel desk, I was
told that they could not be sold under the Iowa state laws,
but that I could obtain all I wanted if I went across the
bridge over the Mississippi River to Rock Island, Illinois.
Such were and such are the absurdities of the American law
and laws. The worst was yet to come with the onset of na-
tional prohibition 1

While in Philadelphia at the opening of the tour, the man-
ager of the company, meeting me casually on the street,
stopped me and said that he had a great idea for a stroke of
publicity. "I'll invite the Japanese consul to see 'Madame
Butterfly/ and decorate the box with his national colors and
flags/' The next time I saw him I asked what had happened.

Return from the West 125

"Yes, I saw the Japanese consul," he said, "and what do you
suppose, he's a Jew." The manager had overlooked the fact
that a consul is simply a business official, and that often he is
not a native of the country he represents. One morning in
the same city I was caught on the street in a heavy shower,
and dodging into Wanamaker's I asked for an umbrella.
"Will you take it with you?" inquired the clerk, who hap-
pened to be a woman.

After the end of the tour, a further season of twelve weeks
with Belasco was given twice a day at Proctor's Fifth Avenue
Theatre in New York, with "Madame Butterfly" as part of
the regular vaudeville bill. I had little to do, the major part
of my duties being to get the check for the salaries every
Saturday morning, to make up the pay roll, and pay off the
members of the company at the afternoon performance.
Every Friday I went to the offices of the Society for the Pre-
vention of Cruelty to Children, otherwise known as the Gerry
Society, for the application to permit the appearance on the
stage of a child under seven, took it at once down to the City
Hall, and returned there on Monday to obtain the signature
of the mayor, who at that time was the Tammanyite Robert
A. Van Wyck. I am still holding some of these signed certifi-
cates as souvenirs of that momentous engagement.

Those "child protection" laws frequently resulted in ab-
surdities from the stage point of view. The child in "Madame
Butterfly" was supposed to be a baby less than two years old.
It could appear at one performance, but if it did not meet the
requirements as to age, it could not reappear, and another
child must be provided. That was what happened twice, and
then with the third child, the daughter of the stage carpenter
was pronounced acceptable. To represent a two-year-old
baby, we had a child at least seven, and aside from the effect
upon the audience, it was a hardship for the actress who
represented Madame Butterfly, for she was compelled to carry
the "infant" through many of the scenes of the play, and at

126 / Speak for Myself

one time up a flight of stairs. The role was an arduous one,
for the play ran over an hour, and she was compelled to be
on the stage all the time except for an interval when she was
out of sight of the audience, but even then was unable to
return to her dressing room. These experiences of twelve
weeks in New York mark the end of my career as a "theatre
manager/'

A Genius of the Stage

BEFORE I LEAVE my months with David Belasco, now so long
ago, I must say something in reminiscence of that great man
of the theatre. In spite of their distance in time and space,
these are among the most lingering of all my recollections. I
saw and talked with him seldom, for all his business was in
charge of his general manager, Benjamin F. Roeder, who
represented him in the offices in the Carnegie Music Hall
building at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-seventh
Street. Not till some years later did Belasco have a theatre of
his own. He pervaded the scene that bore his name, and I
saw and heard from him often enough to enlighten me as to
the reasons for his fame in the dramatic and theatrical his-
tory of his time. He was calm in temperament, seemingly shy
and retiring, and he might easily pass as a Catholic priest
with his sombre clothing and facial contour. But he was a
Jew, a descendant of the branch of his race from Spain and
Portugal. He was a native of California, and came east after
his early days on the stage in San Francisco and elsewhere
along the Pacific coast. William Winter gives a detailed ac-
count of these and all his years in a long two-volume biog-
raphy.

One of Belasco's earliest engagements in New York was at
the little Madison Square Theatre, which was not in the

127

is8 I Speak for Myself

square whose name it bore, but just around the corner in
West Twenty-fourth Street. In its early days it was the scene
of some of Steele MacKaye's inventive stage exploits, and it
was the playhouse in which his famous melodrama of sixty
years ago, "Hazel Kirke," had its first production in New
York and began its long run of two years. I myself saw it
years afterwards at a South End theatre in Boston, and it has
been acted hundreds of thousands of times all over the world.
I should not be surprised if even now I came across an an-
nouncement of its revival somewhere. One day I asked Mr.
Belasco if he had devised the double stage at the Madison
Square that could be raised and lowered at will, and he re-
plied: "Oh, no, that was Steele MacKaye's!" This once widely
heralded invention was ingenious, but it did not prove very
practicable, for the time saved between the acts in the shift-
ing of scenery was lost because about the same interval was
frequently required for changes in the actors* costumes.
Therefore little was gained by having the stage set for the
curtain to rise immediately upon an uninterrupted succession
of scenes.

It was Belasco's habit always to have somebody with him
on his journeyings about the city, or on a trip across the At-
lantic, the reason being that he wanted all the annoyances
and responsibilities of travel taken off his shoulders. My
friend Cook had accompanied him to London for that pur-
pose, and while I was in New York I was drafted into his per-
sonal service on a few of his Manhattan excursions. One of
them was a call on Blanche Bates at her apartments in West
Twenty-third Street not far from Madison Square, where she
was living with her mother, Mrs. F. M. Bates, who was a re-
tired actress. Miss Bates was then preparing to star under the
Belasco management as Cigarette in a play made by Paul M.
Potter, an expert play-maker of that day who not long before
had dramatized "Trilby" at the height of the excitement over
George Du Maurier's novel. This play was the familiar "Un-

A Genius of the Stage 129

der Two Flags" from Ouida's most celebrated novel. A short
time after this meeting, it was produced at the Garden The-
atre and proved popular there and elsewhere throughout the
country. The interview between Miss Bates and Belasco must
have been brief. I left with him, and perhaps we went back
to his studio, where I had called for him, or at any rate I left
him in good hands, possibly with Mr. Roeder, but certainly
not alone.

It will be seen from this rather sketchy account of the
visit to Miss Bates that my memory is not as good as it ought
to be, even in those days, but what happened was probably
of small importance. Of course I should have kept a diary,
but I did not, and regrets are futile. I should have kept it for
my self-satisfaction, even if I could not foresee its importance
in the writing of this autobiography. I recall another evening
in New York when I was asked by Mr. Roeder to meet him at
the Lambs Club about midnight in order to take a stroll with
Mr. Belasco through the streets of that vicinity looking for
the site of a theatre, which he had had in mind for some time
before he acquired one by lease on West Forty-second Street,
and then later had one built for him to his own specifica-
tions. It seemed to me a rather vain way to seek a theatre;
but Belasco usually knew what he was about, and thereby he
gained his ends. I also remember that when I said goodbye to
him on the eve of leaving New York for Boston he impressed
it upon me that were I ever in need of financial assistance I
should apply to him; but I never asked him for help.

Other evenings with him remain to be recorded, for they
throw light upon his methods of staging a play. On the Sun-
day evening before " Madame Butterfly " was put on for its
twelve weeks' run at Proctor's Fifth Avenue Theatre, I was
one of an assemblage that went at his request to watch him
direct a rehearsal of its scenic and lighting effects. The per-
formances of that play were always preceded by three or four
panoramic pictures of Japanese scenes thrown on a screen so

130 / Speak for Myself

that the audience might presumably be receptive to its orien-
tal atmosphere. Over and over again they were displayed that
evening until all of us, except Belasco, grew weary. We
drifted out one by one, for it was after midnight; but Belasco
remained, how long I do not know, but perhaps until dawn
was breaking.

Then, some years later, there was a Monday evening in
Boston at the Tremont Theatre when a rehearsal was called,
the opening performance of "Adrea," one of his plays written
for Mrs. Carter in collaboration with John Luther Long, be-
ing delayed so that it might be put into proper shape for its
presentation outside of New York, where it had been run-
ning for months. Belasco was moving about between the stage
and the orchestra seats, saying little, but watching intently
all that was going on beyond the footlights. An extremely
minor player did not satisfy him either in manner or in voice
when he had to rush on as a messenger with only a single
sentence to utter. Suddenly, in a fit of justifiable irritation,
Belasco leaped upon the stage, rushed to the wings and en-
tered upon the scene, speaking the speech as it should be
spoken, and ordering the actor to do as he had done. But did
the actor do it? No, indeed, for he was only an obscure actor
and doubtless always would be. But David Belasco was David
Belasco.

37

Last Days with Belasco

OF COURSE Belasco was neither actor nor dramatist in the
complete sense of these words, but he was distinctively a su-
preme man of the theatre. He had acted many parts in his
youth; he never acted later. He was essentially a theatrical
genius, after the first steps he took in his chosen profession
that, beginning in California in boyhood, ended on the
heights of his calling some sixty years afterwards in New
York. He did not write plays; he rewrote them and made
them vital for the stage. To many plays his name is attached,
but they are not altogether his. Often the pen that did the
greater part of their writing was held in another's hand. But
it was his brain that made them actable. The finest play that
bears his name is "The Return of Peter Grimm," and what-
ever there is in it of greatness is his. It is a marvellous and
well woven combination of the real with the unreal. Its effect
upon an audience is the product of his mind.

Because of these facts the man and his plays hold a high
place in the American theatre. They will probably not be
revived, but their fame is secure; and no historian of the
drama can ignore them. The most prominent of his collabo-
rators was Henry C. De Mille, father of the De Milles of
motion picture celebrity. To illustrate and prove the origi-
nality and success of his methods, I need merely cite the evi-

132 / Speak for Myself

dence of an actor who for some years was a member of one
and another of Belasco's companies. This actor, with whom
I often sat in conversation in his dressing room at Proctor's
while he was making up, and with whom I also talked during
visits to The Players, that wonderful institution founded by
and given to the members of his profession by Edwin Booth,
told me that when the company engaged for "Madame But-
terfly" gathered for its first rehearsals, there was no prepared
manuscript, or prompt book, in existence, and that the actors
had for their guidance no typewritten "parts," as the pam-
phlets containing the lines they are to study are called. The
name of this actor, who has long been dead, is Rankin Du-
vall, and he had been on the stage from youth.

Possibly it is not generally known that "Madame Butter-
fly," so thoroughly have the play and the opera made from it
obscured its origin, was at the outset a short story by John
Luther Long published first in the Century Magazine. He
was a Philadelphia!!, and a lawyer by profession who, em-
boldened by the popularity of his first Japanese play, wrote
other plays and stories that had a limited measure of success.
The play was there in the midst of the scenes and dialogue
of "Madame Butterfly," and it was by means of the theatrical
ingenuity of Belasco that it achieved its reputation. Much
the same method of the building up step by step of a play
was doubtless the beginning and the progress of other Belasco
plays.

Another of the plays of combined David Belasco and John
Luther Long authorship was again on a Japanese theme,
"The Darling of the Gods," which was acted for several sea-
sons with Blanche Bates in the leading role of Yo-San. It is a
romantic spectacular drama in four acts with a long cast of
characters, and it gave opportunity for effective display of
oriental stage settings. One evening, as I was sitting in a dress-
ing room in the Tremont Theatre, I had the good fortune to
see and talk with several actors who were appearing as its

Last Days with Belasco 133

principal characters. Among them were Robert T. Haines,
George Arliss (this was before his starring days), J. Harry
Benrimo, Albert Bruning and the aforesaid Rankin Duvall.
It was interesting to watch the care with which they made up
their exotic characters, and to have Duvall tell me that after
he had been drowned in the course of the action of the play,
he gave to the audience the illusion of having been dragged
out of the water by the application of vaseline to his face.
And Benrimo, who appeared bare-legged in a dark scene,
made his legs up as carefully as if they were to be in the full
glare of the footlights.

It has always seemed strange to me that Puccini did not
follow "Madame Butterfly** with another opera on a Japanese
theme, since he had "The Darling of the Gods" ready at
hand for musical interpretation. Instead he chose Belasco's
American play, "The Girl of the Golden West," which was
not a very appealing subject for an Italian composer of the
calibre of Puccini. It happens that successful operas live
longer on the stage than plays, as is evidenced by the fact that
"Madame Butterfly" the opera is sung many times every sea-
son in Europe and America, while "Madame Butterfly" the
play is well-nigh forgotten. And, except followers of stage his-
tory and traditions, whoever thinks of it now as a Belasco
production, or of John Luther Long, its original author? The
name of Puccini is alone attached to it.

38

Back to the Transcript

JUST BEFORE THE END of the run of ''Madame Butterfly" in
New York, I made arrangements to return to Boston and the
Transcript. My work at Proctor's closed on a Saturday eve-
ning, and after several enjoyable hours at The Players with
friends of the theatre from whom I did not break away until
three o'clock in the morning (I am not reluctant to confess
this), my wife and I took the ten o'clock train at the Grand
Central Station, reaching home (Boston has always been home
to us) in the course of Sunday afternoon. At eight o'clock
Monday morning I was back at the Transcript, after an ab-
sence of almost two years, ready to begin my new work as an
assistant editor in the magazine and special feature depart-
ment. During an interview with the Transcript management
for which I had made a special night trip over from New
York a few days previous, I was promised the position of
literary editor whenever a change might be necessary, with
no anticipation that it would come soon. In the meantime I
was to do two columns of literary news and comment under
the heading of Writers and Books to appear every Wednes-
day and Saturday. Thenceforth I wrote those columns regu-
larly twice a week for more than thirty-five years, as a part of
my activities as literary editor.

My return to the Transcript was in May, 1901, and in No-

134

Back to the Transcript 135

vember Charles E. Hurd, who had been literary editor for the
preceding twenty-five years, was overtaken by ill fate: a heavy
book fell on his foot in the office. After hobbling to work for
a few days, he was compelled to remain at home, and I took
over his duties temporarily, as I supposed. But Mr. Hurd
never returned, and although he lived for about eight years
more, it was to endure sufferings that included not only one
amputation of his leg, but a second operation made necessary
when the first wound did not heal. Thus the Transcript lost
an able literary editor, although he continued for some time
to write reviews of books that I sent out to his home in Dor-
chester regularly.

Just such disasters as his came to more than one of our
men. One of the employees in the composition room had the
ill luck to be injured in the foot by the fall upon it of one of
the heavy metal forms, or chases, and thereby lost his life.
The superintendent of the pressroom lost first three fingers
of one hand, and later his other hand and arm were drawn
between the rollers of the huge press, resulting in their am-
putation. He lived several years thus crippled, and I under-
stand that he received a pension from the Transcript man-
agement the rest of his life. Mr. Hurd, I do know positively,
was given his full salary part of the time, and half-pay during
the rest of his retirement until the day of his death. The
Transcript had a long roll of pensioners for many years,
but they were all discontinued prior to my leaving. All that I
received at that time was two weeks and two days salary, and
I suppose others were treated the same. I had said to myself
and to others years before, that when the time came for my
end on the Transcript, no pensions would be given. And thus
for one time in my life I was a true prophet. The worst for
all of us was yet to come. Fortunately the future was sealed
from our eyes.

39

Halcyon Days

MY DAYS FOR TWO DECADES and more after the dawn of the
twentieth century were days of happiness for myself and for
all on the Transcript. Everybody was sure of his position and
nobody was discharged unless he merited that tate. The range
and burden of my work, as was that of others, was extensive.
Especially did my duties give to me the satisfaction of diver-
sity. They were not laborious, and if they had been they
would have rested lightly on my shoulders. I knew r that I had
a great responsibility, but I did not worry about it. Mine was
not the temperament that impelled me to face my work as
though it were a daily struggle, to fuss and fume and com-
plain, as I have known others to do with little or no reason.
I was not interfered with, and 1 gloried in my freedom. The
extent of my labors grew with the passing years, and I re-
joiced in them, because they grew with the growth of the
Transcript in its prosperity. The increasing number of my
pages gave me pleasure. At the time of my first advent in
1894, the size of the entire paper rarely exceeded twenty
pages, and for a long while the Saturday issue never went over
thirty-two pages.

It went on in its uninterrupted growth, until thirty-two or
forty pages were not exceptional from Monday through Fri-
day, and it was not astonishing to have a Saturday paper of
over sixty pages. We received complaints from readers that

136

Halcyon Days 137

its size was too great, but that was unreasonable, for no one
was compelled to read it all from first page to last. The sen-
sible reader could pick and choose what interested him most.
Furthermore, it was sometimes difficult to convince outsiders
who brought in bits of news, mainly of self-interest, that we
were publishing a daily and not a weekly newspaper. "I want
this to go in on Saturday," we would be told peremptorily,
perhaps on a Wednesday, and the applicant could not under-
stand why we insisted on using it at once, if we used it at all.
They wanted it to appear in the Saturday issue because that
was the day of largest circulation, and often they would be
offended if we refused to grant their request. They thought
we were unreasonable when we told them that news on Wed-
nesday had ceased to be news by Saturday.

These difficulties did not affect me personally, however, for
my book review pages were in only the Wednesday and Satur-
day papers. From year to year for a long while I had entire edi-
torial control of two pages on Wednesday, and my Saturday
pages increased in number from two or three in the early days
and at varying months, to six or seven, and sometimes as
many as eight or nine, on Saturday. The largest number I ever
had in any one issue was fourteen, on a Wednesday, for one
of the four annual issues called "The Christmas Bookstalls,"
which appeared in the month preceding Christmas and were
devoted to the customary reviews, with the addition of lists
of books of the year, classified under the successive headings
of Juvenile, Fiction, History and Biography, and Miscellane-
ous. Until 1920, my Saturday pages were a part of the regu-
lar sections, and although I had petitioned frequently for an
individual and exclusive Book Section, my request was not
granted. I felt that if I kept at it long enough, I should even-
tually win. And I did win.

Suddenly on a Tuesday, or it may have been a Wednesday,
Mr. Mandell came to me and said: "Well, at last we're going
to have a Book Section every Saturday, and it will begin this

ig8 / Speak for Myself

week." I gasped at such short notice, although the news was
welcome. I felt like saying, "Why don't you give me more
time to get it ready?" but I refrained. My pages had to be
arranged for and assembled several days in advance, but I
was sensible enough to offer no objection, since I had gained
my main point. I bent to my task, and the work was hurriedly
done for the quickly advancing Saturday. For a long while,
at Mr. Mandell's suggestion, the first page of the Book Sec-
tion was devoted to a special article by a well known writer,
and for it we paid $50. The reviews and the special depart-
ments, such as Writers and Books, the London and Paris
literary letters were on the inside pages. The two Wednesday
book pages were continued for years as usual, until the spring
of 1936. Finally, without consulting anyone, I abandoned the
feature articles on the first page of the Book Section, and put
leading reviews in their place, since I needed that space for
them, and the difficulty of securing articles from famous
authors became burdensome. A change was made in the form
of the Book Section about 1934 by making it tabloid size, but
almost everybody was displeased, and eventually it resumed
its normal appearance.

It will possibly be understood by anyone observant of the
make-up of a daily newspaper as a whole, or of any of its
parts, that its number of pages is determined by the volume
of its advertising. In other words, the more advertising the
more pages, and the more pages the more advertising. My
book review material followed this general rule. The more
books published, the more advertisements, and consequently
the more reading matter in the Book Section. No amount
was too much for me. I always had more books on hand than
I could find time to review. The most prolific book review
periods of each year were naturally the spring and the pre-
Christmas seasons, and the least favorable, although I never
was in want of material, were the summer months and a
month or so following Christmas.

40

The Transcript Centenary

As THE TWENTIETH CENTURY advanced into its teens, the
Transcript was riding on the highest waves of prosperity,
and the Book Section was at its crest. Then came the depres-
sion, as its fourth decade neared, and by it my department
was affected with all the others. My pages grew fewer, al-
though I still had too few to accommodate my reviews. Books
were still published in plenty, and although the number I
received each year decreased from five thousand to four
thousand, the decline was scarcely noticeable to our readers.
Four thousand books a year is a large number to be pub-
lished, and there was little if any decrease in my work, or in
anybody else's on the paper. We upstairs were not so alive
to the downward trends in the financial economy of the
Transcript as were the workers in the business department
who sat at the seat of customs and noticed the decline of its
daily income both for circulation and for advertising, espe-
cially for the latter.

A succession of changes in management followed, until the
Transcript was no longer in the possession and control of
the members of a single family who had descended from its
original proprietors. We had in July, 1930, a grand cen-
tenary celebration from which it might have been assumed
that its affairs were still booming. And in our hearts they

139

140 / Speak for Myself

were booming, for there was always hope. The dinner and
its accompanying festivities were held in the grand ballroom
of the Hotel Statler, where some eight hundred men and
women were present, half of whom were Transcript em-
ployees, from the basement where the paper was printed and
distributed up through all the floors of the business and edi-
torial departments to the composition and stereotype rooms
under the roof. Each member of the staff was privileged to
invite a guest, and of course we who were married were ac-
companied by our wives. At a short ceremony during an in-
terval in the dinner we presented the owners of the paper
with a bronze tablet on which was an inscription written
by a committee consisting of Charles A. Colton of the busi-
ness office, G. Horace Ellison of the composition department,
and myself of the editorial staff. After several consultations
we evolved the following, which was surmounted by a rep-
resentation of an old-fashioned hand printing press, with
the dates 1830 and 1930 respectively at the left and right:

This Tablet
Presented to the Proprietors

of the
Boston Evening Transcript

By its Employees
Is a Testimonial of Their Love

and Loyalty

and Commemorates

One Hundred Years of Life

and Achievement

Under Continuous Family

Ownership

The purchase of this tablet was financed by small con-
tributions from the four hundred employees of the Tran-
script, and it was placed on the wall of the countingroom
near the entrance door, and is still there despite the fact that
the family is not now in possession of the property. A reor-

The Transcript Centenary 141

ganization by court procedure resulted some three years ago
in an entirely new ownership which is doing its best to put
the paper once more on a substantial foundation.

It might as well be said here that the changes in manage-
ment, beginning about the middle of the thirties, affected
everybody. This could not be otherwise. My combination of
reading, writing and editing continued of course, but my
space was cramped, the pleasant and happy family atmosphere
became clouded by the departure of old members of the staff
and the arrival of new ones who were not aware of the history
and traditions of an old-time newspaper. Our sphere and
freedom of action was restricted and circumscribed. It was
not the same Transcript to which we had been accustomed
for so many years. Mr. Mandell was gone; Louis M. Ham-
mond, who at first had been our advertising manager and
later our treasurer and business manager, was dead after a
service of fifty years, and there were too many there who had
ne\er heard of cither of them.

Other long periods on the Transcript staff covered more
than fifty years, the holder of the record being William
Durant, our treasurer and business manager, whose life
ended alter more than six decades of service, during many
of which the entire responsibility for the paper rested on his
shoulders. Not far behind him was John D. Whitcomb, for a
long time the foreman of the composition room, his term,
which began in 1848, continuing into fifteen years of the
twentieth century. Others who passed the half-century mark
were Frank A. Clark of the mailing room, George J. Porter
and William A. Moreton of the composition department,
William A. Ford, who was long in charge of the personals,
the obituaries and the exchanges, and Miss Elizabeth Fuller-
ton and Miss Frances M. Walker of the proof-reading depart-
ment. Miss Walker survives them all, to her belonging the
distinction of having been present at both the fiftieth and the
one hundredth anniversary dinners held in 1880 and 1930.

142 / Speak for Myself

The name of the Transcript was then and is now still at
the top of every page, but its typographical appearance has
been altered in the effort to bring the paper "up to date," in
the not too happy phrase of the day, and attempts have been
made to make it the rival of other and far different evening
newspapers. It had had a field of its own, and it remains
traditionally the Transcript of old, the paper of which Haw-
thorne had written casually almost one hundred years ago
in words that are proverbial: "Towards evening comes the
Transcript/' Memories of what had made it one of the lead-
ing and most influential of all the evening newspapers in the
country, in spite of the fact that its circulation had never
ascended towards the hundred thousands, still lingered in the
minds of us all who were proud that we had been on and
were still of the Transcript.

A Bureau of Information

ONE ASPECT OF LIFE and work on the Transcript not realized
by its readers was the absence of countingroom or business
office dictation and supervision. We did not suffer from it as
did some newspaper men. It is the bane of too many of them.
We were never fearful of being reprimanded because some-
thing we had written might offend our advertisers or readers,
and we had little trouble over threatened suits for libel. In
speaking of this of course I can refer only to my own personal
experiences, but I know they were shared by my fellow
workers. Moreover, the curse of attempted bribery never
troubled me. Once in a great while I might receive a letter
enclosing a dollar bill, or perhaps one a little larger, with
the implication that it was not so much for me personally as
it was compensation for a favor granted by the insertion of
an item or article in our reading columns. The obvious reply
to this was return of the money with the remark that the
advertising department was the proper place to approach.
And whenever I heard a book review referred to as an adver-
tisement, as sometimes happened, I would take the time to
write a letter explaining that book reviews were printed in
the Transcript only as a service to and information for our
readers.

One of my clearest recollections of this sort of thing (and

144 ^ Speak for Myself

I have very few of them to remember) goes back to one
late afternoon when my door opened and a stranger entered
with a demand, half hesitatingly and half forcefully, for the
insertion of an immediate review of a book he held in his
hand. I looked at the book, discovered that it was not a new
one, and glancing down at my desk saw that he had placed a
gold coin there. It took a moment for me to realize what it
meant, whereupon I said calmly: "No, indeed, I don't want
it, and I can't review the book. It's an old book, and I have
not room for it." He made no opposition to my remark, said
nothing that I can remember, turned about and left the
room, without further explanation or expostulation. Whether
he went elsewhere or not, I do not know; but I hope he
understood his blunder. I feel quite sure that I am justified
in declaring that it is not true, as is sometimes reported, that
"every newspaper man has his price."

We at the Transcript were often looked upon as a bureau
of information on all subjects, as if we were an institution like
a public library. We did try to respond to a sensible question
politely, and refrained from showing a reasonable annoy-
ance. Most of these inquiries came by telephone. I have time
and again been asked such an absurd question as "Where
can I buy such and such a book?" It was a great temptation
to reply with an ironic "at a hardware store, of course," but
I would restrain myself and answer calmly, "Go to any book-
store," naming two or three of them to be of further help
and thus exalt the reputation of the Transcript. A favorite
type of inquiry was to identify the source of a quotation, or
to satisfy a dispute over spelling. On the very first day of
June, early in the morning, a voice on the telephone asked:
"Can you tell me who wrote 'Oh, what is so rare as a day in
June'?" I gave the answer at once, congratulating myself that
it was so easy.

The supposed value of old books brought me many in-
quiries, by word of mouth and by letter usually. It is a com

A Bureau of Information 145

mon misapprehension that if a book is old it is therefore valu-
able. Old editions of the Bible are very common, and it was
sad to see the grimace of disappointment with which my
answer was received. "There isn't a chance in a thousand that
any old Bible, no matter what its age, is worth anything more
than its weight as waste paper." Sometimes it was difficult to
persuade the inquirer that I knew what I was talking about,
and as a last resort I would end with: "Take it to any second-
hand bookseller, and see what he'll say." Perhaps some of
these owners of an old Bible had seen a report of a sale of a
Gutenberg Bible and had taken it for granted that therefore
any old Bible was equally valuable.

Among the types of questions to which I was subject, usu-
ally by mail, was one of this tenor. "I have heard that a first
edition of Hawthorne's novel, 'The Scarlet Letter,' is worth
money, especially if it contains a typographical error. I have
a copy of that book. Will you tell me how I can find out what
it is worth?" I turned over this letter to my friend Herbert
Jackson, who is more familiar with the matter than I, and
asked if he would explain it to my correspondent. He did so,
and this is his report in substance: "I wrote her that the first
printing of 'The Scarlet Letter' contained on page 21, line
29, the word 'repudiate' and that after some copies of it had
been run off the press it was discovered that that word should
be 'reduplicate.' The press was stopped, and the correction
was made. Such is the avidity of collectors of first editions that
any copy of the first printing containing the misprinted word
'repudiate' will bring more money than the later printing
with the right word 'reduplicate.' I stated all this to the in-
quirer, and I added that if the book was as I have described
it and she would send it to me, I would try to sell it for her,
and thought I could get a good price for it. She sent the book
to me, and here it is."

Whereupon I held out my hand, took the book from him,
and it proved to be the cheapest of all the cheap editions of

146 / Speak for Myself

"The Scarlet Letter," one that probably sold for less than
fifty cents in the first place and that would not bring even
one cent in its decrepit condition. What was to be done?
Nothing, when anyone was so stupid as that. So Jackson
returned the book with a brief explanation, and the incident
was closed.

Another amusing example of a changed edition has to do
with General Lew Wallace's novel of more than fifty years
ago, "Ben Hur." It was dedicated in the first instance "To
the Wife of My Youth/' and at once he began to receive let-
ters of condolence from friends who thought the phrase
indicated she was dead. She was not, and General Wallace
immediately had the dedication amplified so that it read,
"To the Wife of My Youth who Still Abides with Me," thus
providing a prize for the collector of first editions who hap-
pened to own or to be able to purchase a copy of the first
printing. When I read this the first time, I rushed to my
fiction bookcase, took down my copy of "Ben Hur," and was
disappointed to find it was not an example of the first print-
ing. So another of my dreams of wealth was shattered.

Making Up a Newspaper

No LESS IMPORTANT than the hours I spent at my editorial
desk were my other hours in the composition room helping
in the "make-up" of my pages. That was as necessary to the
completeness of my work as everything else I did, although
members of the reading public hear little and know less
about it. They have heard of typesetters, proof readers, press-
men and printers, but the "make-up man" is a stranger to
them. Yet he is one of the most important cogs in the wheels
of the machinery of editing and printing. The make-up man:
who and what is he, and what does he do? If it were not for
him the printing presses would never be able to move. He is
the intermediary between the linotype operator and the
stereotyper.

The "make-up" of a newspaper may be defined as the ar-
rangement of articles, headlines and pictures when they have
been put into type, or mounted on metal blocks after the cuts
have been made from photographs or drawings. It was my
custom to go up to the composition room at an assigned hour
every Tuesday and Friday afternoon to oversee and super-
vise the assembling of my pages that were to appear as parts
of the Wednesday and Saturday issues of the Transcript.
Lying on the tables were the forms or metal frames in which
the type and other essentials were to be placed. I would stand

H7

148 / Speak for Myself

at the lower edge of a page form, and the make-up man op-
posite me would in accordance with my direction put the
columns of type and the pictures standing on galleys or
shallow trays beside him into the pages, which were not com-
pleted until after all of its eight columns were filled. He
would lift the type expertly handful by handful, and at last
the entire form would be ready to be "planed down," "locked
up/' and wheeled into the adjacent stereotype room. When
the plates had been cast a process too complicated to be ex-
plained here they were sent down by freight elevator to the
pressroom in the basement and placed in the right order on
the press so that the completed paper would emerge at light-
ning speed printed and folded.

I emphasize all this so particularly, which is a small though
an important item in the entire process of getting out a news-
paper, in order to show how close a connection there is be-
tween its editorial and mechanical elements. "Co-operation"
is the watchword throughout a newspaper plant. As I look
back over my more than forty years at the Transcript, I can-
not forget the many hours I spent with my associates in the
composition room. I wish I might mention them all by name,
both the departed and those who are still there. I call all of
them my personal friends as well as my professional asso-
ciates. On the other hand, it is astonishing to recall that in
my long service I visited the pressroom not more than once
a year, if as often.

The reason for this is that my individual work on any one
daily issue of the paper ended when the make-up process
ended. Thereafter I merely had to wait until the office boy
brought the completed paper to my room soon after the
presses began to hum. In the meantime I had begun or was
continuing my labors on the next issue in which my depart-
ment appeared, either Wednesday or Saturday. For some two
years near the close of my Transcript life, I wrote a column
review that appeared daily, but the only work it entailed in

Making Up a Newspaper 149

addition to its writing was the reading and correction of the
proof. The make-up man did his share all by himself, unless
it was necessary to call me upstairs to cut out a few lines so
that the review would fit into the space allotted to it.

So my work went on day after day, week after week, and
year after year. It was by no means monotonous, for there
was diversity in it, and although I was always at my desk in
the same place, the scene was constantly changing and open-
ing up to me a vista of continuous life and the world. I was
physically in Boston, but I was mentally everywhere else.

My Desk and I

THAT DESK OF MINE! It was with me so long that it seems to
have a personality all its own which it shared with a large
typewriter desk that stood beside it for years that must have
numbered more than twenty. It had been with me almost
from the beginning of my working life. I inherited it from
Mr. Hurd when I succeeded him upon his retirement, but I
had first made its acquaintance before that day. It was mine
when I was with Henry B. Humphrey in his advertising
agency before I went to Harvard and during my college
vacations. At the moment I became literary editor, I went
back to it, and through all my removals from one Transcript
room to another, and even when I went up a flight of stairs
into the Milk Street building, I followed it and it followed me.
More than fifty years my desk and I had been boon com-
panions, and I wanted none other. It was an old desk when
it became mine the first time, and when we parted company
in 1938 it had become a veritable antique, worth nothing in
the market of course, but worth a great deal in my mind. It
was a massive piece of furniture, a relic of a vanished era of
desk-making, but all the choicer to me on that account. It
was built of the red-stained cherry wood once so popular,
with drawers to the floor on both sides and a flat writing
surface that had once been covered with dark green felt cloth

150

My Desk and I 151

which grew steadily shabbier and shabbier as the years went
by. At the back under its roll top were plenty of pigeonholes
and small drawers, with a recess in the centre for ink and
pens and pencils and whatever else I cared to clutter it with.
There was scarcely an empty square inch of it anywhere, for
what was the use of having so large a desk if I failed to avail
myself of its resources?

In the accurate sense of the word, it was not a safe desk
if I had anything valuable in it, for the lock had become
decrepit and the key had gone the way of all keys. The roll
top itself would go up and down, but with some reluctance,
and the latest repairs on it were doubtless the last. The front
edge that faced my chair and me showed the ravages of time
unashamedly, for it was as full of curves as is the ocean shore
when the tides are out, and its charred and bruised surface
spoke eloquently of my smoking of many thousands of ciga-
rettes as I sat there at my work. Toward the chair I have no
sentiment or regret, for although it was at least a quarter-
century old, it was a youngster compared with the desk.

It was cruel of me to leave my desk to its fate in that room,
but what could I do? I could not take it with me, since I had
no room for it in my home, and if I had attempted to have
it removed, it would undoubtedly have suffered as the his-
toric one hoss shay suffered. What has happened to it, I do
not know; but it has probably gone the way of all good old
desks that are no longer wanted in this ungrateful world. The
most that I can do in honor of its long and faithful service is
to pay to it this tribute of respect and grateful words.

Enter Christopher Morley

I HAVE KNOWN Christopher Morley ever since he came to
Boston for a temporary stay shortly after his return to this
country from his studies as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford. By
the way, it is quite remarkable that the three Morley brothers,
Frank, Felix and Christopher, were all Rhodes Scholars; and
I must add to this that their father was a distinguished pro-
fessor of mathematics successively in Haverford College and
Johns Hopkins University. Christopher and I became friends
from the moment when he looked in on me one day in 1915
as I was sitting at my Transcript desk. That is twenty-five
years ago, when he was twenty-five, and I have watched his
advancing career always, glad to recall that I knew him at its
beginning.

Not long after his first call he came in one morning all
astir over a scene he had witnessed in the window of the now
abandoned Houghton & Button department store at the cor-
ner of Tremont and Beacon streets. A dairy was in operation
there and could be seen by anyone who walked down the
Beacon Street slope just before reaching Tremont Street.
One of its most inviting features for the purpose of advertise-
ment was a group of young women in the midst of butter-
makingin other words, it was a miniature rural Arcadia in
the heart of a great city. What caught his eye especially was a

15*

Enter Christopher Morley 153

churn such as might be seen in any New England farmhouse,
or possibly on the stage of a theatre where a performance of
the once familiar "Robin Hood" was in progress. In his hand
was a piece of paper, and on it were these words:

HYMN

TO THE DAIRYMAIDS ON BEACON STREET

Sweetly solemn see them stand,
Spinning churns on either hand,
Neatly capped and aproned white
Airy fairy dairy sight.
Jersey priestesses they seem,
Miracling milk to cream.

Cream solidifies to cheese

By Pasteural mysteries,

And they give, within their shrine,

Their communion in kine.

Incantations pure they mutter
O'er the golden minted butter
And (no layman hand can pen it)
See them gloat above their rennet!

By that hillside window pane
Rugged teamsters draw the rein.
Doff the battered hat and bow
To these acolytes of cow.

Genuflect, ye passersby!
Muse upon their ritual high-
Milk to cream, yea, cream to cheese
White lacteal mysteries.

Let adorers sing the word
Of the smoothly flowing curd,
Yea, we sing with bells and fife,
This is the whey, this is the life!

1 54 I Speak for Myself

"Will you use this?" he asked, in those words, or something
like them. After a moment's glance, I responded, "Of course
I will," and the verses appeared in the Transcript a day or
two later; to be exact, on Saturday February 13, 1915, form-
ing a Morley first edition that will be highly prized by any
collector who is lucky enough to acquire it. So clever is it
that its two awful puns will readily be forgiven. It is truly
prophetic of the Morley to come.

Once in a while, when Morley came over to Boston, he
would drop in to see me, or telephone me; but as a rule our
acquaintance has been by way of the mail in letters and
memoranda that would make an interesting book by itself.
Everything was grist that came to his mill. While he was in
Philadelphia on the staff of the Ladies' Home Journal, he
discovered and clipped from the Transcript a news story
bearing this headine: "New R. L. S. Committee." The first
words under it were "Roxbury Latin School." The "R. L. S."
in both, he had underscored with red pencil and in the
margin were written the words, also in red: "O Hell!" Accom-
panying the clipping was this letter:

DEAR MR. EDGETT:

Two RLS fans protest indignantly at the cruel and unmerited
disappointment caused them by the attached headline in a recent
Transcript. What right has the Roxbury Latin School to use that
sacrosanct triad of initials?

Respectfully yours,

FRANKLIN B. WILEY
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

Wiley, by the way, was an old associate of mine on the Tran-
script who had left us some years before to go to Philadelphia
to join the Curtis forces.

Another Morley relic in my possession is a card with a
drawing of a lobster on it, with the printed words "Edgett's,
Broadway at 6gth Street." Accompanying it, on New York

Enter Christopher Morley 155

Evening Post stationery, with which paper he was then asso-
ciated, he had written with pen and ink these words: "Have
you gone into the Lobster traffick? Yours, Christopher Mor-
ley."

It may be remembered that, in partnership with other en-
thusiasts of the theatre, Morley ran a playhouse across the
Hudson in Hoboken for a while, and that under their man-
agement several antiquated plays were produced, among
them the notorious display of the feminine form of the six-
ties known as "The Black Crook," which had then been all
the rage in New York and elsewhere. To its opening at
Niblo's Garden, on September 25, 1866, and its subsequent
run of 475 performances, Professor George C. D. Odell in
the eighth volume of his "Annals of the New York Stage"
gives four pages, with photographic portraits of its par-
ticipants, remarking that "the spectacle remains in popular
consciousness as the first attempt to put on the stage the wild
delirious joy of a sensualist's fancy."

This revived production of "The Black Crook" was sent
on the road under the Morley management, and its arrival in
Boston was heralded by an advance agent, a young woman
who brought me a letter of introduction from Christopher
written in pencil on the back of a mimeographed restaurant
menu, and running thus:

DEAR EDWIN

Please be nice to Miss who is our evangeliste for The Black
Crook!

C. D. M.

My niceness consisted, among other things, in lending her
material of which I have no doubt she made good use in the
newspapers, but it was with fear and trembling that I gave
into her hands a large one-volume illustrated history of the
Boston Theatre, the famous old playhouse that stood ever
since 1854 on Washington Street until its destruction about

156 / Speak for Myself

ten years ago to make way for a modern motion picture
palace. My faith in her and in Christopher Morley was justi-
fied, for she returned the book promptly, and it is now safe
behind glass doors on one of my library shelves. I am sorry to
say that other book borrowers have not been so thoughtful,
a fact of which I am reminded by the gaps among my books.

Naturally, since ''The Black Crook" was a stage spectacle
that I had heard much about ever since the beginning of my
stage-going days, I thought it necessary to see it, and I there-
fore took my friend Jackson with me to the old Keith's
Theatre, where it was booked in Boston. It was decidedly
worth seeing as an interesting and quaint antiquity of the
American stage, and it proved to be a real "show/* and even
more of a burlesque than it was in its original version when
it was arousing the condemnation and moral opposition of
the nineteenth century theatrical censors. But its immorality
had evaporated, and it was really very mild stuff indeed,
especially by contrast with the sights we now see both in
plays and in motion pictures. Soon after this excursion of
"The Black Crook" from the wilds of Hoboken, Morley
seceded from the theatrical business, a wiser but I scarcely
think a sadder man. I doubt, however, if he will ever become
again a theatre manager, or a reproducer of old plays. He has
written a number of plays, at any rate, and one of them,
entitled "Pleased to Meet You: An International Hilarity in
Three Acts," was the opening attraction at the third season
of the Repertory Theatre of Boston.

His brief and sportive letters helped to make the day a joy-
ful prospect to me as a sequel to the opening of my morning
mail. What I had written to or about him that drew forth
this letter, I fail to remember, but it is typical of many as it
came to me on a Saturday Review of Literature letterhead:

DEAR E. F. E.:

You are a rogue! You know perfectly well I did not say all

Enter Christopher Morley 157

metaphors are vulgar; I said that all the best metaphors were
vulgar. Blessings anyhow and my affectionate homages, genu-
flexions and table tappings.

Your pupil and friend,

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY.

In my collection of Christopher Morley letters is one in
which I take great pride, especially as it is all written in his
own hand from his home, and justifies me in thinking that I
have been of some help to my fellow man. It is dated from

GREEN ESCAPE, ROSLYN HEIGHTS, NEW YORK

May 21, 1926
DEAR MR. EDGETT

Cleaning up a mass of papers before going on a vacation, I came
upon many old clippings of little odds and ends of things that I
contributed to the Transcript. And I want you to know that I
have not forgotten, and shall not forget, your kindness to me in
those prentice days; when the Transcript's small checks meant to
me a tremendous great deal not merely as money but as encour-
agement. You reached then a position in my heart never quite
attained by any other editor the only Editor Who Never Turned
Me Down. I think of you with gratitude and affection and it just
struck me that I ought to tell you I have not forgotten.

Yours indeed

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

To have been associated with Christopher Morley at the
beginning of his career is one of my liveliest memories.
Editorial positions on the Ladies' Home Journal, the Philadel-
phia Evening Ledger, the New York Evening Post, and the
Saturday Review of Literature, with his work as contributor
to their columns, have kept him busy ever since his return
from Oxford. But the American public knows him best as
the author of " Parnassus on Wheels/ 1 "The Haunted Book-
shop," "Where the Blue Begins,' 1 "Thunder on the Left,"
"Kitty Foyle," and his many delightful little books of verse
and prose bearing the attractive titles of "Mince Pie,"

158 / Speak for Myself

"Shandygaff," "Religio Journalistic!," and "Plum Pudding,"
all truly Morleyan. In one of these he quizzically refers to
the old-fashioned wire-rope elevatornow a relic of the past
that brought him up to my room on the fifth floor of the
Transcript's Milk Street building. In one of these books of
miscellany of his he calls me "gentle-hearted," but I know
not why.

Anyone who is seeking to read the Morley of the early
post-Oxford days will find him here and there in the old
files of the Transcript of 1916, 1917, and thereabouts, but
they are signed not with his name, but with his initials,
C. D. M., which is short for Christopher Darlington Morley,
and which because of its length you will not blame him for
curtailing. As a master of the gentle art of pleasantry and
the romantic he is not excelled, and in conversation he is as
ready with his tongue as he is with his pen or typewriter in
his making of books.

Actors and Editors

THERE ARE MANY and varied interludes in this story, and I
might as well bring some of them into it now, although the
events they chronicle took place here and there throughout
almost the entire length of my Transcript life of nearly half
a century. It is customary for newspaper editors and report-
ers, with the approval of their employers, to amplify their
salaries by engaging in outside work, especially as publicity
writers or press agents, as they are customarily designated
for theatres and other amusement enterprises. Through my
connection with David Belasco, I was well qualified to do
that extra writing, which on successive occasions came from
various sources, almost without my seeking it. At odd times
I acted as the Boston representative of Mr. Belasco and James
K. Hackett, my duties being to send out to the Boston news-
papers information about their activities, and to give as-
sistance to their touring managers when their companies
came for short stays there.

The greater and longer part of this service, however, had
to do with local theatres, each of which had its own press
agent. The first of these engagements lasted only a few
months, and was with Corse Pay ton, an actor and manager
who thought he would be able to establish one of his stock
companies in Boston. That project failed within a few

'59

i6o / Speak for Myself

months, and thereafter I was successively engaged with Win-
throp Ames, Lorin F. Deland and John Craig in their man-
agement of the Castle Square Theatre, and with Henry
Jewett at the Copley and Repertory theatres. All this work
was easy and congenial, and I had practically no trouble in
obtaining all the information about plays and players essen-
tial to my purposes, whether I was representing a New York
or a local manager. It was mine for the asking, and usually
without the asking.

In addition to all this, I wrote magazine articles and occa-
sional material on a variety of themes for other publications
than the Transcript. I did several special articles on actors,
including Mrs. Fiske, Maxine Elliott and William H. Crane
as long ago as 1902 and 1903 for Leslie's Monthly when it
was under the editorship of Ellery Sedgwick prior to his long
and highly successful career as head of the Atlantic Monthly.
What lingers most closely in my memory about this is the
fact that I received from him the highest rate of space pay-
ment that it was ever my good fortune to obtain from any
source before or after. A long historical and critical account
of American literature for the Encyclopedia Americana was
another piece of writing I did, and for it I received a set of
that work which I sold to a Boston bookstore for $40.00.
That was not very good in view of the time I spent over it.

For the ten years between 1908 and 1917 I wrote short edi-
torials weekly for the Boston Budget, and I have them all,
not pasted in a scrapbook, but safely preserved in a drawer
as I tore the pages containing them from the paper every
Monday. During all that long time I regularly received my
weekly check in the first mail Monday morning, with only
one lapse, and that because the United States Post Office
Department had missent it. Once a year for six years I an-
nounced the annual coming of Sousa and His Band to Bos-
ton, and found the manager, Harry Askin, one of the pleas-
antest men I ever had business dealings with, especially when

Actors and Editors 161

he saw to it faithfully that a bottle of Scotch whiskey did not
fail to reach me whenever he came over from New York.
Other incidental publicity tasks came my way, two of which
I recall as press-agent work for a Boston singing teacher, and
as herald for an actor friend who put on amateur perform-
ances of plays for the sake of bringing his pupils before the
public. He was Howell Hansel, at one time leading man of
the Castle Square Stock Company. It is his fate to be now
with the great majority.

The most important of my local theatre activities while I
was the Transcript's literary editor extended over the long
period of twenty-five years when I was doing the publicity
work for the Castle Square, the Copley and the Repertory
theatres. Both John Craig and Henry Jewett were steadily
conspicuous in the theatre world of Boston, and few there
were among the residents of Boston and its suburbs who did
not see them and their companies at their playhouses. That
was the heyday of the popular-priced two-a-day local com-
panies that sometimes were before the public the year round
without taking a summer vacation. The play was changed
every week, afternoon and evening performances were
given daily all over the country, and thousands of dramas
and comedies were acted that theatre-goers could not pos-
sibly otherwise have seen. Multitudes of patrons were regular
weekly attendants and subscribed for the same seats through
the entire season. The plays presented were usually those
that had survived their appeal after they had been acted by
the famous stars and travelling companies. Occasionally pro-
ductions of new plays were given, and by both Mr. Craig and
Mr. Jewett there were excursions into a Shakspearean reper-
tory.

After several seasons at the Castle Square as leading man,
Mr. Craig leased that house in 1908, and managed it for al-
most ten years with at first a triumphant popularity that
slowly diminished. For the greater part of the time he and

162 / Speak for Myself

his wife, Mary Young, acted the most important roles, both
being great favorites with the Boston public, and even now,
a long time after their departure, I feel sure they are not for-
gotten. Mr. Craig died a few years ago, and Miss Young
makes infrequent ventures into management and motion
pictures.

Tears at the Castle Square

ALL THIS WORK left me little spare time except for evening
reading at home, but it in no wise interfered with my duties
in the Transcript editorial rooms.

Perhaps I should explain the duties of a local theatre press
agent. He communicated through the newspapers informa-
tion about what was going on in the theatre with which he
was connected, he prepared the advertisements day by day
and week by week for the daily newspapers, he wrote and
edited the programs, which for both the Craig and the Jewett
theatres were by no means the conventional bills of the play
common in most theatres, filled with nothing but the casts
of characters, announcements for the coming weeks, and a
medley of advertisements. Instead these programs contained
special material, the greater part of which I wrote, that made
them important enough to take home for reading and for
preservation. These programs of my past are certainly valu-
able to me, many years later, for I have separate volumes of
them bound annually to the number of twenty-one. They
extend through the years from 1905 to 1930, and they enable
me to look up anything readily that may aid me in my
theatrical retrospect. They fill an entire long shelf in that
section of my library devoted to the stage.

The press agent would also meet in frequent conference

163

164 / Speak for Myself

with the management, he would interview members of the
company in order to obtain news for the papers and articles
for the program, and he did everything he could to keep his
theatres fresh in the public mind.

My first years at the Castle Square Theatre began in
September, 1905, when it was under the direction of Lorin
F. Deland and Winthrop Ames, the first an advertising ex-
pert who in his younger days had had visions of becoming
an actor, although he renounced them eventually to enter
the paths of business. He was the husband of Margaret De-
land, the novelist. Winthrop Ames was a member of the
wealthy family that had long prospered in Massachusetts
business and politics, and he continued to be a man of the
theatre from his Harvard days to his death a few years ago.
The artistic aspects of the theatre appealed especially to him,
and as a possessor of a portion of the Ames fortune he was
able to gratify those inclinations to the top of his bent, even
to the building of new theatres. Apparently he had no aspira-
tions towards becoming an actor. He was content to stand
away from the footlights as they shine in public, and to hold
in his hands the directing reins behind the scenes.

Mr. Ames's first experience after the collapse of the Castle
Square project was to go over to New York to become head
of the New Theatre that was a failure almost before it
opened. At one time he had had the idea of erecting and
managing a theatre in Boston on a site in Park Square, but
he gave that up. After he became a New Yorker, the theatre
and everything pertaining to it was his principal ambition,
and he went on thereafter in the paths he had blazed for
himself on his way to the heights of the profession. He ven-
tured into revivals of some of the Gilbert and Sullivan
operas. He did not a little to carry on and sustain the demand
for those immortal examples of humor and music, and he
made a lasting name in the history of the American theatre.

Mention of the names of that amazing pair who seem

Years at the Castle Square 165

destined to live forever, with "The Mikado," "Pinafore"
and all the rest still filling the theatre with audiences that
find them as timely and as amusing as they were more than
a half-century ago arouses in my mind a pertinent question.
Would not the reputation of Victor Herbert be greater and
more lasting if he had had for a librettist a humorist of the
calibre of Gilbert? Certain it is that Gilbert was essential to
Sullivan and that Sullivan was essential to Gilbert. They
were an unmatchable team, and Victor Herbert needed a
comparable mate, and there was none available to furnish
him with such a libretto as was Gilbert's for Sullivan.

The Deland and Ames seasons at the Castle Square gave
them the chance that seems to be the aim of almost every
manager whether or not he be also an actor; and that is the
production of some of Shakspeare's plays. They are all will-
ing to take the financial risk for the sake of the potential
glory. These Castle Square Shakspearean productions in-
cluded special inducements in the way of artistically de-
signed stage settings by Frank Chouteau Brown, a well known
Boston architect who was highly praised for his technical
skill, while at the same time school and college students were
offered matinee seats at a schedule of lowered prices. They
were largely attended and commended for their acting and
illusory stage equipment.

4-1

Actors and Their Ways

FOR SOME YEARS during this period I had the pleasure of ac-
quaintance with William Charles Masson, who had come
over from Australia in his youth and remained in this coun-
try the rest of his life. He drifted here and there from sea-
son to season, after the fashion of many actors, and he was
also a practical and clever stage manager who knew all the
tricks of that trade. I would receive many letters from him
from theatres and cities innumerable after he left the Castle
Square, for he never seemed to lack engagements as an ex-
pert member of this, that and the other stock company. The
last time I saw him either on or off the stage was when he
came to Boston and played a minor part in the production
of "Merry Wives of Windsor" in which Mrs. Fiske, Hen-
rietta Crosman and Otis Skinner were a trio of celebrated
stars.

My friend Masson was a capable actor who played many
parts, but he was as much an actor off the stage, and also a
fellow of infinite jest. He was often disconcerting in his con-
versation, for he was so much of a joker that it was impossi-
ble to know whether or not to take him seriously. At one
time he was house manager of the Castle Square during two
successful summer seasons of opera under the Deland and
Ames direction; but they came to disaster in their attempts

166

Actors and Their Ways 167

to substitute grand opera for drama when the autumn came.
This grand opera was an expensive proposition, for they
were obliged to have practically a double company of prin-
cipals, with the added expense of a chorus and auxiliaries.
Soon thereafter came the beginning of John Craig's long
regime as actor-manager of that theatre.

To speak of comic opera carries my mind back to the
summer of 1910 into the midst of a sad enterprise in which
with two partners I started out to win our joint fortunes in
theatre management. This partner was my good friend
George E. Clark, who was then the Castle Square treasurer,
and we had as a third member of the corporation (we were
really incorporated) Ben Craig of John Craig's stage staff.
We subleased the theatre from Mr. Craig for the summer
interim between the two regular seasons, spent six months in
engaging a company and other necessary preparations, and
opened on Monday evening June 20, 1910, with a produc-
tion of "The Mikado." On Saturday evening of the next
week, after we had given Planquette's comic opera "Rip
Van Winkle," the season came to a disastrous end.

Confession is good for the soul, and I know that George
Clark will join me in saying that the project was a ghastly
failure, and that it was foredoomed in such inexperienced
hands as ours. We grit our teeth and grinned, and bore with
equanimity our joint loss of $3,000. I don't believe either of
us had ever spent so much money in so short a time. But we
had the satisfaction of retiring gracefully, of paying all our
debts, and of knowing that the only man who came out of
the affair with full pockets was John Craig, to whom we
paid the two weeks' rent of $500 due him. George and I do
not see each other as often as we should like to, but he is still
in Boston, having transferred his allegiance from theatre
to hotel management, of course with justice and credit to
himself. For my last two years and a half I had the pleasure
of having for my very efficient secretary his daughter Mar-

168 / Speak for Myself

garet, whom I have known from her babyhood, and now
she is still on the Transcript, where I visit her once in a
while. That I may not be accused of overlooking them
how could I overlook them, since I saw them and worked
with them each during her term of service, I must set down
the names of my three other secretaries Mary E. A. Barker,
Mildred F. Brown and Olive S. Buckiiell. Together, one
after another, with Miss Barker serving the longest of them
all, they were with me almost forty years.

4-8

Two Actor Managers

THE ACTOR TURNED MANAGER was sometimes lacking in prac-
tical business sense, especially in the preparation of adver-
tisements. Neither Mr. Craig nor Mr. Jewett was able to
understand the technique of space in newspaper columns.
Advertising in metropolitan newspapers is paid for at the
rate of so much a line of measured agate type, and when
they estimated the cost of a certain-sized advertisement they
begrudged every line of it that was i^ot occupied by words.
It is an extremely sensible rule in newspaper advertising
that white paper is as much worth paying for as the black-
ness of words and sentences. But whenever I took the proof
of a projected advertisement to either of them, each would
insist upon filling in the ends of lines and the corners with
more printed matter.

Sometimes they had their way, when I saw that it would
be a waste of time to argue, but I was occasionally able to
get the better of them, and thereby make the advertisement
more effective in its display, and stronger in its "pulling
power," as the advertising man's lingo has it. My favorite
reminiscence of Mr. Craig in this respect is that I could not
make him understand why it was impossible to get the long
name of a play such as "The Taming of the Shrew" in the
same-size type in the same relative space as "Hamlet." The

169

170 / Speak for Myself

amenities of the daily life of a press agent sometimes added
to his joy of living.

I think I never had anything to do with any two men of
the theatre so diametrically different as were John Craig
and Henry Jewett. Physically and temperamentally they
were utterly unlike. Mr. Craig was lithe in physique and
quick in movement. Mr. Jewett was large and heavy, but by
no means stolid. Both were alert mentally, and both were
excellent actors of wide national as well as of local Boston
reputation. They were personally acquainted, of course, but
as far as I know they never encountered each other as actors
in the same play. They both made Boston a home for long
periods, and their lasting reputation belongs to that city. Mr.
Craig was the first to come to Boston, and Mr. Jewett the
last to remain there, and their names are prominent in Bos-
ton stage affairs for over thirty years. There were few days
in that long time when the name of the one or the other did
not appear in theatre advertisements or in the news columns
of the papers. They were on the Boston stage before the ad-
vent of the motion picture; they were also on it after the
motion picture had reached its high popularity.

Neither was Boston-born. Let me present Mr. Craig first.
He went in his boyhood from Tennessee, his birth state, to
Texas. I remember asking him, having seen his name some-
times on programs as John D. Craig and sometimes as John
R. Craig, if one of these was a typographical error. "No," he
answered, "my middle name was really Dickey, which was
the surname of a friend of my father, but it seemed so like
a nickname that I changed it to Richard, and finally dropped
the middle name or its initial altogether, and became plain
John Craig." Coming north to New York he was leading
man in a succession of companies, at one time acting im-
portant roles with Augustin Daly and Mrs. Fiske. Before I
knew him personally, I remember seeing him as Orsino in
"Twelfth Night" with Ada Rehan as Viola, and as Angel

Two Actor Managers 171

Clare with Mrs. Fiske in the dramatization of Thomas
Hardy's "Tess of the D'Urbervilles."

My mind is filled with memories of those years during
which there was scarcely a day when John Craig and I did
not see and talk with each other, and I have the happiest
recollections of his acting of a diversity of characters in hun-
dreds of plays of all kinds from tragedy to musical comedy
during his ten seasons at the head of the Castle Square The-
atre. They were casual incidents in my daily life then; as I
look back towards them now they have grown in their im-
portance. His range extended from Othello to Sinbad the
Sailor in "Jack and the Beanstalk," which was one of his
most successful presentations. Although he acted that in-
significant role with a zest that went over the footlights, he
told me that it seemed to be nothing more than nonsense to
him; yet he and his company, including Mary Young as Jack,
filled the theatre during its run of five weeks every afternoon
and evening of the Christmas and New Year's season.

As for his Othello, I asked him when he was playing to
capacity audiences, "Why not go on with it for another week,
instead of changing the bill to a less important play?" but
his answer was emphatic: "No, it is a great tragedy and a
great character, but it gets on my nerves to be compelled to
murder Desdemona twice a day." This was no jest, but an
instance of the seriousness with which he sometimes took
his work as an actor. And as almost everybody knew, Mary
Young, who was acting Desdemona, was his wife. Here is an
actor's unintentional contribution to the eternal argument
as to whether he should really feel the emotions of the char-
acters he was acting. "Othello" was merely one of his Shak-
spearean productions, for his repertory included both trage-
dies and comedies, and like Deland and Ames he made a
specialty of artistic scenic productions,
signer the well known Livingston Platt.

Another evidence of Mr. Craig's good

172 / Speak for Myself

actor but as a manager is shown by his willingness to change
his mind after having announced his decision to produce a
play that he later discovered was unfit for his audiences. He
had advertised in his program a revival of Charles Hoyt's
popular farce-comedy, "A Trip to Chinatown," and when I
asked him when he was going to put it on, he said: "Never.
I've just looked through the script, and it is so full of out-
rageous horseplay that I've decided not to do it. I won't act
in it myself, I'm not going to ask my company to either, and
I don't want to insult the intelligence of my audiences with
it." As a matter of fact, it was one of the worst of Hoyt's ab-
surd comedies. Sometimes as I remember all this and much
else, I wonder if I should really be better off in the way of
reminiscent anecdotes if I had kept a diary.

John Craig and His Staff

ALTHOUGH MR. CRAIG had a stage director to prepare his
plays for their production for afternoon and evening per-
formances, which required rehearsals every morning and fre-
quently all day Sunday of the play scheduled for the week
to come, he usually had a great deal to say himself at those
times. It is marvellous that the mind of man or woman could
every week study, retain and then finally cast aside the lines
the playwright had set down for them. Mr. Craig was not
what is known in theatrical parlance as a "good study." With
all the details of the management of the theatre to look after,
it is a wonder that he could ever concentrate on learning any
part, or upon it when the time came for the curtain to rise
011 its performance. The parts he played were almost always
the longest of them all, sometimes extending to fifty or
seventy-five "sides," as the pages of an actor's manuscript are
called. But he was clever at getting through a play by "fak-
ing" his lines, although the substitution of words or phrases
for those he was supposed to repeat was disconcerting to the
members of the cast who were doing their best to respond to
their cues. They would not receive the right words where-
from to follow him, and especially on Monday afternoons
and evenings, the performances were often short of perfec-
tion, and an occasional humor not intended by the dramatist
or the actors attended their scenes.

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1 74 I Speak for Myself

One friend of many years now there are nearly thirty-
five of themwhom I first knew at the Castle Square is
Phillip H. Lavine, who served Mr. Craig ably and faithfully
as his right-hand man both on and off the stage. He tells
many good stories about his hours when with prompt-book
in hand he was trying to keep his employer on the strait and
narrow path of his role. He was not the official prompter,
but when Mr. Craig wanted efficient aid he placed so great
reliance upon Phillip's carefulness that he was drafted to
hold the book. If there were a fireplace as a part of the stage
settings, he would place himself within its depths in order
to be as close as possible to the actor, who often would edge
over to that side of the stage so as not to miss the whispers
aimed at his ear. Any odd corner out of the vision of the
audience would serve its purpose. Since the Castle Square
was equipped with one of the old-fashioned prompters'
hoods placed in the centre of the stage just behind the foot-
lights, especially for opera, it was requisitioned now and then,
with Phillip Lavine within its stifling confines holding the
book on Mr. Craig.

Years later I was to have Phillip's son Sigmund, then only
a baby, as one of the most useful and important reviewers on
my Transcript staff. His first and only appearance on the
stage as an actor is set down in a Castle Square program of
"The Heir to the Hoorah," dated the week of December 14,
1908, as "The Baby, by Himself." Instead of becoming an
actor, towards which I think he once looked ambitiously,
Sigmund entered the profession of teaching, and after a two
years experience that stood him in good stead at a govern-
ment Indian school in North Dakota, he is now married and
living in suburban Boston while he is a member of the
teaching staff of a public school. Sigmund's sister Phoebe
later had a brief career as an actress in local stock companies,
but after a while she renounced her stage ambition for the
felicities of married life. And these two children's mother,

John Craig and His Staff 175

it must be added to complete the family record, has no idle
moments all the year round, for in addition to her house-
hold cares she manages a summer camp for girls on the
shores of Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire, and dur-
ing the rest of the year keeps herself from idleness by run-
ning a kindergarten school for very little children.

The stage hands, too, were helpful to Mr. Craig. One
morning I happened to be in his office while he was eating
his breakfast from a tray on his desk. It had been sent in
from the hotel, and he was enjoying himself at a time near
noon that is usually the actor's breakfast hour, when Tommy
O'Brien, the property man, entered and said: "Good morn-
ing, Governor, what shall I give you to eat at the perform-
ance this afternoon?" The play was "Are You a Mason?"
in which there is a scene where the hero is sitting alone at the
table. "Oh, cut up some apples, Tommy," was the reply,
''but be sure to wash your hands first." This salutation of
"Governor" was the customary way of addressing Mr. Craig,
and is common in many theatres.

5O

Actors and Stage Managers

DURING ONE of his later seasons, Mr. Craig was preparing
to stage Hall Caine's play, "The Christian"; but instead of
attending the rehearsals he went over to New York, and on
his return Friday he had not learned a line of his part of
John Storm. Valiantly he was about to set to work, when
miraculously there came a telephone message from an un-
known voice at the other end of the line: "This is Derwent
Hall Caine, son of the author of 'The Christian.' Don't you
want me to act John Storm for you? I have acted it many
times, and I can come over at once from New York." With-
out the slightest hesitation, Mr. Craig seized the chance to
lessen his labors. "Yes, come over immediately," he said.
That was, I think, Saturday, and he arrived the next morn-
ing; but on his arrival it was discovered that young Mr.
Caine's text of the play was different from the prompt book
the Castle Square company had been studying. They man-
aged to rush through a final rehearsal, and it is doubtful if
anyone in the audience at the opening Monday matinee
noticed that anything was wrong. Actors have a clever way
with themselves in such circumstances. Similar incidents to
this were not uncommon with a twice-a-day stock company
that was always prepared for the worst and therefore was
equal to overcoming all obstacles.

176

Actors and Stage Managers 177

From the Castle Square stage rose a number of actors who
without doubt profited by their experience and training
through their exacting duties there. Perhaps the most con-
spicuous among them is Alfred Lunt, who as a very young
man began his climb under Mr. Craig's direction, tutelage
and encouragement after leaving Harvard. In spite of his
youth he was frequently condemned to hide his identity not
very successfully in old men's parts, and he may often have
felt embarrassed by his weak simulation of the decrepitude
of voice and bearing he was forced to adopt. But perhaps
that was good for him, piloting him along the difficult road
to his higher achievement. Then he went elsewhere, and
finally found himself with his wife, Lynn Fontanne, a lead-
ing light of the Theatre Guild productions.

Another of Mr. Craig's capable and active young men was
Donald Meek, now playing conspicuous comedy characters
in motion pictures; George Hasscll, who died in the midst of
an auspiciously rising advance on the screen; and Frances
Starr, who after a short engagement with Mr. Craig rose to
stellar flights as one of the successors of Mrs. Leslie Carter
in the roster of David Belasco's heroines. W. P. Carleton,
who became Mr. Craig's leading man when he himself be-
came weary of the dual role of manager and actor; William
Charles Masson and Charles Bickford, whose forte on the
sci ecu is the acting O f rough and tough personages, all came
forth from the Castle Squaie stock company.

During his years as head of the Castle Square, Mr. Craig
had a succession of stage managers. Perhaps I should explain
that the stage manager, especially of a stock company, is the
man who adds usually to his duties as an actor the task of
helping to direct the rehearsals under the authority of the
actor manager, who has charge of the performances, and with
the aid of his assistants rings the curtain up and down on each
act. In fact, he is responsible for everything that happens be-
yond the footlights. If anything goes wrong he receives the

178 / Speak for Myself

blame, and when everything goes right praise for him is
scanty.

One of Mr. Craig's stage managers for several seasons was
William Parke, who had had experience in that capacity
when he was with Richard Mansfield and other stars. In a
reminiscent mood one day he told me that when Mansfield
was preparing Ibsen's poetic play, "Peer Gym," for produc-
tion, they came to the line, "All that I see I see awry," the
last word of which was pronounced by the actor "aw-ry," as
if the first syllable were the English sound "aw." Mr. Parke
was emboldened to tell Mansfield that that was wrong, but the
star would not admit his error except in so far as to sub-
stitute another word for it. Later, in telling this story to E. E.
Clive of Mr. Jewett's company, I was amazed by his reply:
"Why, that's the way I pronounce it." I have looked up the
word in two leading English (compiled and published in
England, I mean) dictionaries and there is no authority
there for Mansfield's or Clive's dictum. I find the word, but
not the phrase as it was quoted to me by Mr. Parke, in Wil-
liam Archer's translation of "Peer Gynt"; but it is possible
that Mansfield used some other English version.

51

Henry Jewett at the Copley Theatre

THE FIRST TIME I saw Henry Jewett on the stage, or any-
where, was at the Hollis Street Theatre when he was Julia
Marlowe's leading man, and was playing Ingomar to her
Parthenia in the once popular play from the German whose
authorship is usually credited to Maria Lovell. It was in
those days a favorite with young feminine stars, for the
heroine is a delightfully ingenuous and winsome character.
Mr. Jewett, a handsome young man then about thirty years
of age, was as attractive because of his personality as he was
impressive in his acting. He had come to this country with
Mrs. Jewett from Australia by way of San Francisco, and he
never returned to his native land. He had made a name for
himself on the stage there and in New Zealand, and after
coming east from the Pacific coast he never had to seek en-
gagements in leading parts. He was an actor whose work
was always in demand.

My acquaintance with him was made while he was play-
ing John Storm in "The Christian" during its first and long
engagement at the Boston Museum in 1899. He had suc-
ceeded Edward J. Morgan and Joseph Haworth in that role
at the close of its New York season, and since it was enor-
mously successful, because of itself and also as a result of
the popularity of Hall Caine, it was one of the hits of that

179

180 I Speak for Myself

epoch, especially with Viola Allen as Glory Quayle. Mr.
Jewett and I became, I think I am justified in saying, close
friends for the rest of his life, up to the moment of his death
in 1930 at the age of sixty-seven. I knew Mrs. Jewett very
well, and had many pleasant conversations with her during
the Copley and Repertory seasons. They both had for a long
time the idea of a theatre of their own in Boston, and after
a tentative brief season at the Plymouth Theatre, a longer
stay at the Boston Opera House devoted wholly to Shak-
spearean productions, and their seven years at the Copley
Theatre, their dream became a reality.

Some years after this engagement in ''The Christian,"
when the Jewetts were living in Boston, and I was again
settled there after my residence in London, Mr. Jewett came
to me at the Transcript with the good news that, as he ex-
pected to make his permanent home in the United States,
he thought it right to become an American citizen. Since it
was necessary for two of his friends to swear they had known
him for a certain number of years, he asked me if I would
stand up with him for that purpose. There was no hesitation
about my affirmative reply, and the other friend was Oliver
Hewitt, whom I was to meet often during our connection
with the Copley and Repertory theatres, and who became
a valuable addition to my staff of Transcript book reviewers.
The naturalization procedure was in two parts; we first went
over to an office in a near-by building, where he was ques-
tioned and registered, and after a waiting period of two
years, we accompanied him to the United States District
Court in the Federal Building for the final session before
the judge and witnesses.

Mention of this appearance in court reminds me of the
very few times I have been summoned as a witness before a
judge. The first was many years ago in a probate court to
swear to my signature as witness to the will of a friend who
had recently died. This was a simple matter, as was also the

Henry Jewett at the Copley Theatre 181

nationalization affair with Henry Jewett. The others were
complex and annoying, and not likely to give anyone a
favorable or even a respectful idea of the dignity or common
sense of legal proceedings. Once I was summoned to appear
in a police court as a witness of an automobile accident in
front of my house early one Sunday morning when I was
foolish enough to go outdoors and thereby make myself liable
to a summons. The second was my enforced going to one of
the courtrooms in the Federal Building to swear that I had
received a release notice sent me by the publishers of an im-
portant magazine article; and the third was an interview be-
fore a master in the Suffolk County courthouse in the matter
of a book review in the Transcript. In none of these was my
testimony of any value, and I was therefore obliged to waste
several hours in each case because of the intricacies and dila-
toriness of the law. It is unnecessary for me to go into de-
tails about any of these cases, but I merely want to relieve
my mind upon the stupidity and futility of some of the ways
of the courts.

52

Henry Jewett and the Repertory
Theatre

OVER A YEAR PASSED between the closing of the Copley The-
atre and the opening of the Repertory Theatre in November,
1915, an intervening experimental season at the Castle Square
Theatre under Mr. Jewett's direction having collapsed after
only five weeks in the September of the previous year. All
energies were at once devoted to the erection of the new play-
house on Huntington Avenue, its completion being a notable
piece of planning and execution that filled scarcely more
than a twelvemonth. In the meantime temporary offices were
opened in a block directly across the street, and from its
windows we could watch the new theatre as it rose almost
brick by brick from foundation to cornice. It was an am-
bitious project, and its success would have made it a perma-
nent landmark in the theatrical history of Boston. But that
was not to be, although four years were to pass before the
futility of its ideals was demonstrated.

Mr. Jewett's career as an actor virtually closed with his
appearances in the character of Count Vasili Vasilivitch in
William Hodge's play, "The Man from Home," in support
of its author. The Jewetts had taken up their permanent
home in Boston, where Mrs. Jewett was a practitioner of

182

Henry Jewett and the Repertory Theatre 183

Christian Science, both being devotees of that faith. I remem-
ber that he acted not over a dozen characters at the Copley
and Repertory theatres, each for only a short time. First of
all he appeared at the Copley as Dr. Chi Lung in "The
Chinese Puzzle/' He had been for so long out of the habit of
studying a part that he misjudged the time it would take him
to prepare for the role and when the Monday for its opening
came he telephoned me frantically in the early morning that
the play could not possibly be given that evening, even
though it had been announced and advertised many times in
the daily newspapers. ''That won't do," I exclaimed in re-
sponse. "You know what they always say of an actor who is
unable to appear." Whereat he said proudly, "They won't
say it of me," for he then had no fondness for liquor. "You
must carry it through somehow," I rejoined, and the matter
was left indefinite.

When I went up to the theatre early in the evening, every-
thing seemed to be going along as usual, and there was a line
at the box office, doubtless attracted by the news that Mr.
Jewett was to appear on the stage again after an absence. I
happened to be standing at the back of the orchestra seats
when at about eight o'clock the curtain rose, and there stood
Mr. Jewett on the stage in his street clothes. Approaching
the footlights, he made an apology, acknowledged that the
fault was all his, confessed that he did not know his part, and
said that the opening performance must be postponed until
Wednesday evening. Whereupon the audience filed out of
the theatre, and that was the first the box-office men knew
there was to be no performance. They had been selling seats
at the very moment when Mr. Jewett was announcing there
would be no play that evening! He had not thought to tell
them of his decision! "The Chinese Puzzle" was acted
Wednesday, as promised, and it was continued through the
rest of that week, and the whole of the next.

The other plays in which Mr. Jewett subsequently acted,

1 84 / Speak for Myself

all at the Repertory, were given as announced. He appeared
as Sir Lucius O'Trigger in "The Rivals" on the opening
night of the new theatre, November 10, 1925, and through
the ensuing two weeks. For two weeks more he acted Hen-
drick Hudson, a small part in "Rip Van Winkle," with Francis
Wilson in the title role; and later his successive characters
were John the Baptist, in an English adaptation of Suder-
mann's "Johannes"; the Stranger in Ibsen's "The Lady from
the Sea"; the Engineer in Ernst Toller's German drama,
"The Machine Wreckers"; Major Sergius Saranoff, a part
he had played with Richard Mansfield over thirty years be-
fore in Shaw's "Arms and the Man." At his request I tried
to induce John Craig, who was then an instructor in a Bos-
ton school of acting, to appear with him at the Repertory
in the leading role of Bluntschli, but was unsuccessful, Mr.
Craig's plea being that he could not give the necessary time
to such a task, the complete reason doubtless being that he
felt himself unable to undergo the studying of so long and
difficult a role.

The last two characters acted by Mr. Jewett at the Reper-
tory were Macbeth for three weeks in March, 1927; and Wil-
liam in Shaw's comedy, "You Never Can Tell," the following
November. As far as I am aware, that was the last role he
ever acted, and it was a fitting close to his career, for I make
no reservation when I say that it was the finest piece of work
he did in all his long service on the stage, and one of the
most remarkable interpretations of character I have ever
seen in any theatre. This is a strong statement, but it is a
sound expression of my emotions. It was a genuine revela-
tion of the old servant in which he absorbed himself so com-
pletely as to be almost unrecognizable solely because of the
powers of characterization that are the foundations of the
resourceful actor's art. I knew Henry Jewett thoroughly on
and off the stage, and there were few traces of him visible or
audible as I looked at him in the personality of Shaw's Wil-

Henry Jewett and the Repertory Theatre 185

liam, as he moved about, as he spoke, and as he gestured.
Except in his figure and his stature he was not Henry Jewett.
He retired then from the stage because he felt that he had
no longer the mental energy or the physical strength to act
a part of any importance. But he was able to remain active
with his hand on the business affairs of the Repertory
Theatre.

Since it was while the Repertory Theatre was in process
of construction that I received the following letter, it may
as well be interpolated here. I found it in my mail one morn-
ing when I went up to see Mr. Jewett at the temporary
offices opposite the theatre.

THE REPERTORY THEATRE OF BOSTON

March 29, 1925
MY DEAR EDGETT

Too often, the way of the world is to take as a matter of course,
good and faithful work, together with the devotion of the worker.
As I recall our long friendship, extending now over twenty years,
I am reminded of how many times you have helped and encour-
aged me, and how untiring and faithful you have been in your
work for the advancement of Repertory in Boston. Especially dur-
ing the past season, when seas have been rough you have pi oven
yourself more than ever a friend, and I just want you to know
how much Mrs. Jewett and I appreciate that friendship.

Sincerely

HENRY JEWETT

If anyone remarks to me that Henry Jewett was autocratic
and unappreciative, all I need do by way of reply is to ex-
hibit this letter. It is the expression of the inmost depths of
his heart.

Back Stage and Out Front

ALTHOUGH, LIKE JOHN CRAIG, Mr. Jewett had a stage director
to take charge of the routine of rehearsals and performances,
he invariably himself rehearsed the company in every play
he gave at either theatre. No actor I ever knew, and I have
known many, was more thoroughly grounded in the art of
preparing a play for production. He knew all its minutiae
out of his knowledge, study and experience. I used to watch
him in the rehearsal room from time to time over many
successive weeks that eventually amounted to years, and I
always admired his constructive ability and the varied quali-
ties of his technique. He knew how to act, and what is more
he knew how to cause others to act to the best of their feeling
for their art. I have seen him make an actress out of almost
nothing, and sometimes I have wondered if the result was
worth the effort and trouble he gave to it, especially since
the effect of his instruction was not likely to be permanent
without his constant direction. One member of his company,
when he was asked if Mr. Jewett "presided" over the re-
hearsals, answered emphatically: "Presidel He reigns." And
there was nothing derogatory in that.

The one fault that might reasonably be found with his
method was that he was often too exigent; he tired out the
actors by his thoroughness and pertinacity, especially with

186

Back Stage and Out Front 187

his final rehearsals on the days of the opening evening per-
formances. When he called a rehearsal on the morning of
the second week of the presentation of a play, I have heard
him say, in fact he said it to me: "This isn't the performance
I gave them a week ago." He was certainly right, for during
the week the actors had fallen away from his high standard,
and he saw that it was impossible for them to recover it.
Perhaps indeed some of them were merely walking through
their parts. He never hesitated to give praise w r hen he thought
it was deserved, and neither was he reticent of blame, and
perhaps once in a while of contempt. Frequent repetitions
at rehearsals of lines or scenes had no terrors for him, what-
ever the actors might think of them. One actress came down
into the office from a long rehearsal in a state of high in-
dignation and exclaimed in my presence: "I'm tired of all
this; here I am forced to stand around for hours while he
teaches that woman how to act!" His highest commendation
tor work well done was in these four words, "He knows his
job," and he repeated it to me of one or another actor many
times. Nothing could be more forceful and downright than
that. But his thoroughness would of course arouse occasional
irritation in the minds of the best equipped members of his
company.

Here is an anecdote about an occurrence due to Mr.
Jewett's forgetfulness. It was a summerlike evening in April,
192?, the opening night at the Copley of a group of three
Bernard Shaw one-act comedies, of which one was "Anna-
janska, or the Bolshevik Empress," in which Catherine Wil-
lard played the title role. Until almost the end she was
swathed in a heavy fur coat which she suddenly threw back
to disclose herself wearing the white uniform of a military
officer. As usual, Mr. Jewett was driven in to the theatre
from his home in Auburndale, and the minute he entered
the office he was accosted by the stage manager with "The
fur coat, Mr. Jewett?" Consternation reigned, especially on

188 / Speak for Myself

Mr. Jewett's face, for it was his heavy coat that Miss Willard
was to wear. He had forgotten it, he who was so often an-
noyed when anyone was derelict in his duty. He rushed to
the sidewalk for his car, which was there, but the chauffeur
had departed on an evening at liberty.

What was to be done? It happened that the play in ques-
tion was scheduled to be acted second of the trio, and would
not go on until after nine. Quietly, I said, "I have my
driver's license in my pocket, and will go for it," although
I knew it would not be an easy task, for I was not accustomed
to the driving of such a light car as his. "Thanks," he said,
"but you'd better take Mr. Sturtevant [his manager] with
you." We started, and I was lucky to have a companion, for
I was afraid to put on much speed. After about five minutes,
Mr. Sturtevant said, "We'll never get there at this rate," to
which I responded, "Well, you'd better drive, then"; and
glad indeed was I to get the wheel out of my hands.

Whereupon we shifted seats, started again, reached the
Jewett house after a five-mile drive, grabbed the coat, which
had been telephoned for to be in readiness, and started on
the return journey sure of arriving at the theatre in time if
we met with no mishap. The way was up and down the hills
and around the curves of Commonwealth Avenue into Bos-
ton, with Mr. Sturtevant, who was arrayed in evening dress
surmounted by a derby hat, driving much faster than the law
allowed. Suddenly a motor-cycle policeman drew up along-
side, and peremptorily ordered us to stop. Explanations of
the emergency flowed glibly from Mr. Sturtevant's lips, and
the policeman was so impressed by his eloquence that he
said: "All right, go on, but drive slowly the rest of the way."
We went on, but with little lessening of the frantic haste.

We reached the theatre in ample time, took the overcoat
in, handed it to Mr. Jewett, and the performance continued
as if nothing had happened. The climax to my part in the
affair came when Mr. Sturtevant turned to me immediately

Back Stage and Out Front 189

after our return, and said casually: "Perhaps you would like
to know that I hadn't driven an automobile for two years
until tonight." As a rule, he was one of the most placid men
I ever knew. The only time I can remember his showing any
nervousness or excitement was at the beginning of the six
weeks season at the Fine Arts Theatre that bridged an in-
terval when the removed and reconstructed Copley Theatre
was being completed for reopening. Everything then was at
sixes and sevens. The Fine Arts was and is a small playhouse
in the State Theatre building on Massachusetts Avenue, and
since it was erected primarily for motion picture display, it
was wholly inadequate for the acting of plays. The stage is
small, there is no place for scenery storage, and what settings
are necessary had to be kept out in the open air on the fire
escape, effort being made to give only those plays that re-
quired no change of scene. Naturally the moving back to the
Copley was a cause for rejoicing on all sides, especially for
Mr. Sturtevant, who by then had returned to his normal
condition. This reopening came after an intermediary sea-
son in which Mr. Jewett took his company to Northampton
and found favor there in the presenting of a number of plays
from his repertory. I remained in Boston, for they did not
need me, and I was glad.

Here and There with Henry Jewett

IT WAS MR. JEWETT'S HABIT to have me sit with him in one
of the Copley boxes in the rear of the orchestra seats at an
opening performance on Monday evenings, and while I liked
to be in his intimate company I disliked the straight-backed
cane-seated chairs by comparison with the soft-cushioned
seats in the orchestra. Sometimes, before the curtain rose,
he would rise from his chair and say: "Come with me." We
would go around to the stage, and he would survey the situa-
tion, with all ready for the beginning of the first act, to see
if anything was wrong with the scenery and stage settings.
One evening, his eye caught sight of a common small table,
and rushing to it, he turned it completely around, exclaim-
ing: "There's a right way and a wrong way of doing a thing."
What he meant was that the stage hands had placed the table
with its drawer away from instead of towards the audience.
Nothing like that escaped him. It was a small matter, but
with him there were no small matters on the stage, and what
he did added to the perfection of the performance.

He always wanted my opinion of the play and its per-
formance during the first entr'acte, but what he really de-
sired was not a frank judgment, but at least a measure of
approval. One evening between the acts he entered the Cop-
ley Theatre office, which was across the lobby back of the

190

Here and There with Henry Jewett 191

orchestra stalls, and asked his usual question: "Well, what
do you think of it?" Thoughtlessly, I said: "How did you
happen to pick this play?" He scowled, but said nothing, not
even a retort discourteous. The next morning, when I was
making my daily visit to the theatre, he glared at me, and
said, almost as if he intended me to take him literally: "I
could have killed you last evening when you asked me how
I happened to pick that play." That was all, nothing more
was said; but of course I have survived to tell the story. Any-
one who knew Henry Jewett, with his stalwart figure, his
beautiful blue eyes, his alternate tempests and serenities,
could get along with him easily, for if he was peremptory at
one moment, he was genial at the next. His smile and his
frequent good humor would disarm anybody.

I haven't the slightest idea why it was, but he always
seemed to be fond of me. His heart was often on his sleeve,
whether his mood was favorable or unfavorable. The storm
never lasted long, and neither did the calm. For about three
weeks at the Repertory Theatre I was out of the place as
press agent, and a young woman was put in my stead, but
not, I am certain, through any desire of his. He had been
overruled by someone. One evening he telephoned me at
my home and said: "Come up tomorrow morning, will you?
I want to talk to you." I went up, and it was exactly what
I had anticipated: "I want you to come back." I went back,
and remained there until the Repertory ended its career as
a playhouse. During that three weeks absence, I was sitting
in the back row of the orchestra on a Monday evening talk-
ing to Oliver Hewitt, when he loomed up and said curtly:
"Get up, Oliver, I want to speak to Edgett." Oliver obeyed,
and Mr. Jewett sat down, although he had nothing important
to say. He simply wanted the pleasure, or whatever it was,
of my company.

No one understood him better than Mrs. Jewett, who was
his associate, his guide and his help in all his labors. She had

192 / Speak for Myself

a great deal to do in the management of the Repertory The-
atre, in the selection of the plays, and she bore the brunt of
its financial troubles. She was the power behind the throne,
and towards the end, when Mr. Jewett was not at all well,
hers was the responsibility. She said to me once, "Of course
you know that Mr. Jewett can be very exasperating/' and I
could do nothing but agree with her. It was no secret from
anybody. They would often go shopping together in the in-
terests of the theatre, and Mrs. Jewett remarked to me in-
cidentally that their joint presence in a store was disconcert-
ing to both. "Mr. Jewett does not like to have me with him
because I spoil his bargaining; and I am frequently humili-
ated by his attempts to beat down the clerks."

Here is a good story told me by Mrs. Jewett of the days
when he was on the road with Virginia Harned in Pinero's
comedy, "Iris." When they reached Boston, which was then
their home, she went on an evening to see the play, of which
she had heard little with reference to its finale. Just as the
last curtain was about to fall, Maldonado, the character Mr.
Jewett was playing, gets into such a rage that he proceeds
to smash the furniture on the stage. Realizing that the end
of the play was imminent, as she told me, "Unaware of what
was to come, I stooped down to pick up my wraps lying at
my feet, when suddenly I heard a terrific noise from the
stage, and I almost exclaimed aloud: 'Good heavens, has
Harry gone crazy?' " She knew how frantic he could become
in a moment of emotional stress, but she quickly recovered
as she realized that it was all in the play. His friends uni-
versally called him Harry. His full name was Henry Robson
Jewett, but he had not used his middle name or its initial
for years.

The feminine influence at the Repertory was strong, and
justifiably so, for the money to purchase the land on which
it stood had been raised by the energetic efforts of a group
of women, and there was a long list of contributors to the

Here and There with Henry Jewett 193

fund, a thousand dollars each from some of the leading Bos-
ton merchants, as well as from private individuals. On the
board of trustees at one time and another were Mrs. John
C. Abbot, Mrs. Henry Jewett, Mrs. J. Weston Allen, Miss
Hope Ladd, Courtenay Guild, Hon. J. Weston Allen, former
Attorney General of Massachusetts, Edward L. Sturtevant,
Oliver Hewitt, and Dr. Payson Smith, Commissioner of Edu-
cation for the state. Mr. Allen did valiant work in minimiz-
ing the expenses of the theatre, because of its charter as an
educational institution, whereby it was freed of the payment
of real estate taxes and of taxes on tickets purchased, these
being, I believe, concessions made to no other theatre in
Boston. All these advantages, however, did little to help the
theatre become a going concern.

Unfortunately the selection of plays was not always happy,
but it is certainly worth recording that during Mr. Jewett's
entire direction of his two Boston theatres, he produced no
fewer than twenty-two, including one-act comedies, of
George Bernard Shaw's plays. His ideal of the establishment
of a stock or repertory company he always preferred the
latter term, which in his case was rather inexact was am-
bitious, but as I look back upon it, the failure of the Reper-
tory Theatre was foreordained. It was not well situated to
draw large audiences, and the emphasis placed upon its edu-
cational purposes did not give it an appeal to the multitude
that looks upon a playhouse and plays as means of relaxation
and entertainment. Furthermore, during all the days of its
struggles, the heyday of this type of theatre enterprise was
waning, and what the majority of the public wanted to see
on the stage was new plays and fresh faces among the players,
instead of the same actors week after week through season
after season. Also then was arising the wider and less expen-
sive appeal of the motion pictures.

Repertory Beginnings and Endings

FOR THE OPENING of the Repertory Theatre in November,
1925, Francis Wilson had been brought forward as a "guest
star," which was rather contrary to Mr. and Mrs. Jewett's
purpose and ideals. Despite the fame of that musical comedy
star who in his later days on the stage became an actor in
serious plays, his appearances did little to foster the aims of
a permanent repertory or stock company theatre. Neither
"The Rivals" nor "Rip Van Winkle" was received with any
wide acclaim. Wilson had long wanted to act the sleeper of
the Catskills, but his efforts to persuade the Players Club in
New York to offer it as one of its annual productions had
been futile because its object was to present as many of its
members as possible in important roles, and Rip is a star
part and almost the entire play.

This was Francis Wilson's chance to achieve his ambition
to act Rip, at least for two weeks, and he made a noble
effort, although I never heard of his reappearance in it. He
had the assistance of Mr. Jewett in the insignificant role of
Hendrick Hudson, but that amounted to little, as he had con-
sented to act the character solely in order to help the produc-
tion. Off stage Wilson was very companionable, without any
of the airs that many a lesser actor might assume foolishly.
As I rode downtown with him in a street car one morning he

194

Repertory Beginnings and Endings 195

called my attention to a brown paper bag he was carrying in
his hand. "These are French rolls," he said. 'Tm going to
breakfast with some friends, and as I'm very fond of them, I
know they will not care if I bring part of the bill of fare with
me." I have an excellent framed memento of him in an auto-
graphed photograph that shows him as the youthful and
beardless Rip Van Winkle who later went to sleep for twenty
years.

After this month or so at the Repertory Theatre, Francis
Wilson left Boston never to return, at least professionally.
He had had his brief day there and was probably satisfied to
go into retirement after a half-century and more on the stage
as a comic opera star and in the acting of principal roles in
comedies. A revival of Ibsen's play "The Wild Duck" next
came and prospered unexpectedly, as did a few revivals of
well known plays, but after five strenuous and almost hope-
less years the repertory enterprise was abandoned just as the
year 1930 was dawning. A season of motion pictures followed
as a concession to the popular taste of the day and year, but
the Repertory continued open only a few months, and is now
one of the numerous interesting temporary episodes in the
dramatic history of Boston. My connection with it was severed
when the theatre turned to the screen, but to the very end
Mr. Jewett would telephone me or call upon me at my office
for advice or assistance.

With this closing of the Repertory Theatre ended my long
and almost uninterrupted experience with theatres and their
managers. It had lasted from 1900 to 1930. I had begun it
almost immediately after my return from London in 1900,
and there were only brief intermissions in my work of thirty
years. During the greater part of that time it was merely in-
cidental to my duties as literary editor of the Transcript, for
my profession was always journalism. What I gained from all
this in New York, on the road with touring companies, and
at a succession of theatres in Boston, was not only the money

196 I Speak for Myself

that came from it, but also a knowledge of the stage and its
people, and of the world at large. It increased my acquaint-
ance with both the business and the profession of the theatre,
and it aided me as a series of valuable diversions from my
Transcript work. But I was glad to give it up, and by its re-
nunciation I gained a welcome release from what was really
a dual life that had kept my body and mind desperately ac-
tive. Because of it, my years at the time and in retrospect
mean much more to me than if I had been tied to an office
desk, or immured within brick walls with my nose to the
grindstone of writing, editing and manuscript reading. My
world by means of it was broadened and enlarged by this con-
nection with the stage and my association with its people. It
gave me an understanding of the varieties of human experi-
ence that I could never otherwise have obtained.

With Another Actor

LET ME GO BACK for a space of time and scene to another
actor who was a bright and shining star in his day. This is the
first chance I have had to embody him in my memorabilia of
the theatre. He was James K. Hackett, and as I recall him he
now appears to be scarcely more than a dim shadow of the
past. His prosperity and repute seem almost incredible as I
look back into the days when I knew him. At one time he cut
so wide a swath in the theatre world that he established
offices in some of the leading American and European capi-
tals. His headquarters were of course in New York, and the
extent of his interests emboldened him to have representa-
tives in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago and elsewhere. Any-
one who went to foreign shores could obtain information
about his ventures from his co-workers in Paris, London and
other cities. Few American actors, even of greater fame than
Hackett, had such far-flung organizations. His stationery
gave the requisite news of his whereabouts to all inquirers.
I had heard that he wanted someone in Boston to speak for
him, and I was impelled to ask for the position and add it to
my other seemingly endless duties. At his suggestion, I made
a day-trip over to New York, saw him in the home where he
was living with his wife, Mary Mannering, whom he had met
while both were members of Daniel Frohman's Lyceum The-

198 / Speak for Myself

atre company, made the essential arrangements with him, and
returned to Boston by the midnight train. Thereafter I was
in frequent correspondence with Hackett or his manager, but
had little to do for him except when he was playing in Boston.

When he came to Boston with "The Crisis/' its popularity
was astounding. For four weeks the Tremont Theatre was
filled to the doors with the largest audiences it had ever held
at ordinary prices. I am confident that while Hackett himself
doubtless aided its popularity, its success must have been
reenforced by the widespread fame of the novel by Winston
Churchill upon which the play was founded. He was forced
to leave Boston at that time because of prior bookings both
by himself and by the theatre, but a return of two weeks later
in the season was a dire failure. Such is the inconsistent fate
of many theatrical undertakings. The life of the play had ex-
pired in a few months. It had become nothing better than a
thing of the past. It and the novel itself are now in the limbo
of the forgotten episodes of the stage and the book world.
Before Hackett and I separated, the new Globe Theatre was
opened with another dramatized novel for its attraction in
which he played the title role. This was "John Ermine of the
Yellowstone/' but it soon vanished from the glare of the foot-
lights.

The letters that passed between us were wholly on matter-
of-fact business details, and they therefore fail to reveal the
personal characteristics of the young actor who at the age of
only thirty had mounted high on the theatrical ladder. His
middle name was Keteltas, and he was of Dutch ancestry, his
father being the James H. Hackett who is a comedian of last-
ing fame in the American theatre, especially notable in his
day as the personification of Shakspeare's Falstaff. After a
period as a "matinee idol/' young Hackett found himself in
the ranks of the popular romantic American actors.

His mother was the elder Hackett's second wife, and she
was so proud of her son that she was in the habit of accom-

With Another Actor 199

panying him on his tours, being always at the gate watching
the crowds go in for the purpose of seeing him act his heroic
roles. The Hackett entourage was most imposing, for it in-
cluded in addition to the regular company and stage crew,
several other persons whose services even greater actors than
he would think unnecessary. Among them was a personal sec-
retary whose name was William Dobbin, familiar to anyone
who remembers the personages in Thackeray's "Vanity Fair."
Actors' mothers are not customarily essential to their sons' or
daughters' appearances on the stage, and Hackett's was no
exception. I have the impression, perhaps wrong, that he
merely tolerated her as a travelling companion, at least back
stage, although I have no doubt that he highly regarded her.
One evening, while I was in conversation with him in his
dressing room at the Globe Theatre, there came a knock at
the door which brought from him the impatient query:
"Who is it?" In response to a faint "Mother," the son said
brusquely, "Go away, Mother I'm busy." Who could blame
him, for he was making up as well as talking to me? My asso-
ciation with him ended when he was forced to curtail ex-
penses. Later he came into what was reported to be a huge
ancestral fortune of over a million dollars, and he spent a
good portion of it in forwarding an ambition to become a
celebrated purveyor of expensive productions of Shakspeare.
They brought him little added fame and no prosperity, and
he died untimely before he was sixty, leaving little more than
a vanished memory as an ambitious actor who tried to do too
much.

51

About William Seymour

ALMOST ANYWHERE in this chronicle will come pertinently
the name of William Seymour. In the profession of the stage,
and with large groups of the public outside of it, he was
widely known. I myself knew him almost from the day of my
arrival in 1894 as dramatic editor of the Transcript, until the
beginning of the illness that ended his life in the autumn of
1933. He was not quite forty at the time of our first meeting,
and he lived into his seventy-eighth year. He came of theatri-
cal parentage, his father being a comedian who had migrated
from Ireland in his youth, and his mother's name will be
found in the playbills of many American theatres as Mrs. L.
E. Seymour. She was Lydia Eliza Griffith before her marriage.
The family name was Cunningham, which had been aban-
doned by the father when he ran away from home to go on
the stage, but Seymour it has remained ever since for their
children and grandchildren. As "Willie Seymour" his name
will be found on unnumbered programs when he was acting
in his childhood and youth, and as "Willie" he was known
to multitudes of his friends all through his long life. He was
less than two years old when he was carried in his mother's
arms on the stage of a New Orleans theatre, and he remained
uninterruptedly in and of the profession into which he had
been born.

200

About William Seymour 201

Our acquaintance began in the lobby of the Tremont The-
atre while he was holding there the position of house mana-
ger. We were brought together through frequent meetings,
and he was in my mind continuously, because of the receipt
of notes and memoranda that he sent to me almost daily
about his theatre's activities. They were not the ordinary
conventional press agent's statements of mere fact, but
friendly little missives that bore the stamp of his genial per-
sonality. They were among the most welcome messages that
came to my desk, and I have some of them still in my posses-
sion. A great many of the letters I later received from him
are now in the William Seymour Theatre Collection at the
Princeton University Library. He had come to the Tremont
Theatre alter varied appearances throughout the country in
support of Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, Edwin Forrest
and other stars, and with the last of these three it is note-
worthy that, at the age of sixteen, he acted the role of Fran-
<:ois in "Richelieu" at that tragedian's last appearance on the
stage ot the Globe Theatre in Boston on April 2, 1872.

His longest and most important engagement up to the time
of the beginning of our friendship was the period of his ten
seasons at the Boston Museum, where he acted a varied range
of characters while he was also serving as stage manager. After
leaving the Tremont Theatre in 1898, he travelled with Sol
Smith Russell as his stage director, he was manager of the
Metropolitan Opera House in New York, and for a long time
a leading member of Charles Frohman's staff as general stage
director, actor and historian. His familiarity with all matters
of the stage in its infinite details, and his knowledge of the
abilities and personalities of his fellow actors especially
equipped him for all the duties of his manifold positions.
There were few men of the stage in his day with whom he
was not closely associated as co-worker and friend.

After he left Boston, there were long intervals between our
meetings, but we heard from each other frequently by letter

2O2 I Speak for Myself

mine always under date of Boston from the Transcript office,
and his from New York, Washington, Chicago or further away
when he was on his tours from one end of the country to the
other. Since he was a much better correspondent than I, and
a far more entertaining letter-writer, I fear the exchange of
letters was always in my favor. His contacts with persons and
events in his profession were many, and his letters were filled
with accounts of the doings of others as well as of his own.
For years he had a summer home in the little village of South
Duxbury, near Plymouth; and there during his last years, es-
pecially after his wife's death in 1927, he lived in semiretire-
ment, with frequent visitors from his wide circle of acquaint-
ance, and of course the members of his family. Across the
road from his New England country home stands the large
estate and mansion that had belonged to his sister-in-law,
Fanny Davenport.

Whenever he visited Boston, usually for only a few hours,
he was happy in making his calls upon his friends, and in-
variably he came in to see me for a chatty half-hour or so of
pleasant reminiscence. He was a man out of the past, to be
sure, but he was a man in the present. He did not live wholly
in the past, but like many of us he delighted in recalling it.
He revelled in its memories, as did I. He always carried with
him a little memorandum book of anniversary records and
dates, and nothing pleased him more than to say: "This is

So-and-so's th birthday/' or that such and such an event,

usually the production of a certain play, took place "so many
years ago this very day." A jocose remark of his more than
once was: "Mrs. Fiske and I have the same birthday, but she
is ten years younger than I." It might be thought that these
reminiscent journeys into the past would pall upon one, but
I always listened gladly to them, and so also, I am sure, did
his many friends when he repeated them.

Such a man as William Seymour, in and out of the theatre,
was a valued friend to anyone, and especially to me, deeply

About William Seymour 203

immersed as I have been all my life in its lore, its traditions
and history through all its epochs. The fascination of his let-
ters was in what he said and in how he said it. He had a
flowing, a coherent and a charmingly readable style, and his
penmanship made their reading a double pleasure. There was
no blind handwriting to come between his thought and my
mind. Here is one of them, written under date of January 2,
1907, from his office as general director for Charles Frohman
in the Empire Theatre in New York. He wrote:

MY DEAR MR. EDGETT,

A Happy New Year to you and yours. Just an item
for the Transcript. On Jany 8, 1907, Mrs. Seymour and I will
celebrate (D.V.) our twenty fifth wedding anniversary. Although
we were married here in New York City, at the Little Church
Around the Corner, our five exhibits, A, B, C, D, and E, were
born in Boston and we feel that we still are citizens of the dear
old city. I think our many friends there will be pleased to know
that we have reached the "silver" age of our connubial felicity.
With regards and good wishes,

I am sincerely yours,

WILLIAM SEYMOUR.

P.S. As a business item, it may interest the theatrically inclined
to know that on Dec. 19, 1906, I concluded my 44th year of active
work on the stage, and on Jany i, 1907 my 34th year as a stage
director, and of the 44 years nearly half have been passed in
Boston.

It was while he was at the Boston Museum in 1882 that he
was married to May Davenport, daughter of Edward Loomis
Davenport, and he was therefore a brother-in-law of Fanny
Davenport. My wife and I visited them in their South
Duxbury home to stay over a Saturday night into Sunday
afternoon soon after we returned from London, and years
later we called on them at the same place when we were driv-
ing down to the Cape Cod Canal from a summer hotel where
we were staying in Scituate on my vacation.

2O4 / Speak for Myself

Of their family of five children (to each of whom, so proud
were they of the family ancestry, they had given Davenport
as part of his or her name), only one, the youngest, adopted
the stage as a permanent profession. For over fifty years Mr.
Seymour acquired and treasured a huge number of play-
books, playbills, letters and other relics of the stage, and they
are now in the aforementioned William Seymour Theatre
Collection in the Princeton University Library, among them
being a large number of the letters he had written to me. It
was his intention to prepare his autobiography for publica-
tion with the assistance of his son James, but like many oth-
ers who held that idea in mind for the future, he never com-
pleted it. It would have been a grand series of reminiscences
of more than half a century of a fertile life on the stage that
had had its beginnings in infancy.

Who Was 0. Henry?

ALONG ABOUT 1 905 a tempest in a teapot began to seethe, and
I regret to say that I was the one who helped to light the fire
that started the water boiling. I wish I might be allowed to
say who inspired me to take part in the quarrel, but that is
impossible, for I am sworn to secrecy even these many years
afterwards. Those were the days when there had begun to
appear in the New York World a series of highly original and
captivating short stories signed with the obviously mythical
name of O. Henry. Everybody knows now who O. Henry was,
but the question of that day was: "Who is O. Henry?" I was
informed that he was So-and-so, and recklessly printed the
inaccurate news in the Transcript. That was when the teapot
began to boil over, and I was scalded and almost suffocated
by the steam. It was disclosed that a certain young man living
not far from Boston had said that he was O. Henry; but to
maintain and substantiate the claim was too much for him,
and when he was accused of falsifying, he finally acknowl-
edged that he had told a lie. My informant wrote me an apol-
ogetic letter, and what is more important I received a letter
from a well known author who knew the inside story of the
identity of O. Henry.

His letter must remain unquoted and anonymous, but I
was fully convinced that its writer knew O. Henry himself

206 / Speak for Myself

and his right name, and that, while he could not disclose it,
the time would come when the world would know all about
him. At last the revelation was made, and through the years
the story of O. Henry has proved to be more diverting than
any of the tales written by that highly popularized author of
short stories that hold a unique place in American fiction. As
his fiction continued to be published with increasing favor, it
seemed to be about time for the truth to be told, and it was
told. O. Henry's name was acknowledged to be William Syd-
ney Porter, and his years, not so very many, had been filled
with adventure and romance, not a little of which was related
at that time, and much more in later biographical records of
his strange life. He was a native of North Carolina and had
wandered near and far.

At last he came north, settled in New York, and began the
writing of short stories, many of them with the surprise end-
ing which he popularized, but did not invent, as has been
claimed. He observed keenly the life about him, wherever he
was, used it for the purposes of his fiction, and after a sore
struggle with penury reached a moderate amount of afflu-
ence first through the receptivity of the New York World,
and then by the interest of editors of magazines and the pub-
lishers of books. Enthusiasm was at its height about him for
a long time, but he is now outmoded. Nevertheless his fame
is preserved in several ways, conspicuously by an O. Henry
Hotel in his honor in the North Carolina town of Greens-
boro, where he was born, and by the annual O. Henry Me-
morial Award volume of collected short stories written by
latter-day tellers of tales who were not necessarily his imita-
tors, although he has had many. His health began to fail, he
went back to his native South in search of a cure, but eventu-
ally returned to New York, where he died in 1910 at the early
age of forty-seven while he was at the top of his fame. Much
of his writing was ephemeral, but because of the picturesque-
ness of his life and the fact that of itself it makes many a

Who Was O. Henry? 207

good narrative, he remains a conspicuous figure in the Ameri-
can literary world of the first decade of the twentieth century.
Perhaps his freakish pen name was one of his most important
assets.

Hours with a Magician

ONE DAY MY OFFICE DOOR OPENED, and there entered a low-
voiced stranger. Approaching me as I sat at my desk, he said
with a questioning inflection: "Mr. Edgett?" and after my
affirmative reply, he continued: "Do you know who I am?"
I looked puzzled, hesitated, and then to my amazement I
heard him say: "Houdini." I had not recognized the great
Houdini, hero of thousands of audiences and millions of
spectators in the cities of two hemispheres! I concealed my
discomfiture as best I could, and soon we were talking as if
we had been old comrades. That was Houdini's way. Never
have I known a more friendly man. He had no axe to grind
by calling on me, and I never discovered why he looked me
up. From that day onward we seemed almost inseparable in
the field of companionship, but of course we did not see each
other often, for I was tied to Boston, and he to New York and
his travelling engagements, some of which carried him as far
away as Australia. If there had been transportation facilities
to the North Star, and time for him to get there in a lifetime,
I am sure that would have been one of his destinations.

We were in frequent correspondence, and every time he
returned to Boston, which was not so often as I wished, he
came knocking at my door figuratively, I mean, for he and
everybody had the right of immediate entrance. At one visit

208

Hours with a Magician 209

he would talk about his rapidly increasing library, at another
about when he was in such and such a town, at another that
he was on the track of a valuable psychical or spiritualistic
array of books somewhere in the vicinity of Boston, and at
another that he was going into aviation as a side issue. Noth-
ing human was foreign to him. Sometimes also he would be
seeking an important theatrical collection, and again he was
engaged in the exposure of one or more fraudulent mediums.
He was an indefatigable collector of books on many subjects
on magic and magicians of course, and in fact upon every-
thing in which he was interested. His hobbies seemed to be
unlimited.

I would call on him at his hotel whenever he came to Bos-
ton, and he would often write me or telephone me to let me
know he wanted to see me. I wish now I had accepted his
repeated invitations to look in on him in his dressing room
on an afternoon or evening. I did not refuse, but I was always
fearful of interrupting him when he was most busy, although
I am sure I could have sat with him an hour or more in per-
fect content for both of us. I would lunch with him and his
wife occasionally, for she always travelled with him wherever
he went, and one noon as we sat at table in the Adams House,
he said suddenly: "Come to see me, won't you, some day this
week?" Of course I replied that I should be glad to. "Bring
your wife," he continued. "Tomorrow evening I do my
packing-box escape, don't I?" this to his wife. It was the most
important feature of his turn that week.

"Come with me," he said, as he rose from the table, and
we rushed (he was always quick and active in every move-
ment, on and off the stage) around into the lobby of Keith's
Theatre, which was next door to the hotel. Leaving me out-
side of the manager's office, he entered without ceremony,
and soon emerged with a pair of tickets in his hand that en-
titled us to two of the best seats in the house. When the time
came, we watched with eager interest his famous escape act,

2 1 o / Speak for Myself

and we have never discovered the modus operand! by which
he freed himself from a tightly roped and nailed box. On an-
other evening I saw him at a performance in Symphony Hall
as the centre of attraction for three hours. He had especially
engaged the place at his own expense in his eagerness to dis-
close some of the secrets of a well known medium, revealing
in many ways his knowledge and skill in the technique of a
spiritualistic stance. In all of this he was clearly the man who
had a right to be called the great Houdini.

Some time afterwards came what was to be our final fare-
well. On an evening in September, 1926, 1 went with a friend
to the Majestic Theatre to watch him as the star of his own
show at the head of his company. He had made me vow to
call on him in his dressing room, and, going around to the
stage door during the interval, I asked for him. I was ready
for the expected answer. "Impossible," said the doorkeeper
in his most impressive manner. "Will you please," I insisted,
"tell Mr. Houdini that Mr. Edgett of the Transcript and his
friend Mr. Jackson are asking for him?" Reluctantly the mes-
sage was delivered, and we were told to go down a flight of
stairs to his dressing room at the foot. He was of course busy
changing, but we were welcomed cordially, talked for a few
minutes and were introduced to his manager. Then we left,
but not until Mrs. Houdini, who had quietly entered the
room, and who was acting as one of his assistants on the stage,
picked up a hairbrush and proceeded to smooth down his
tousled head.

We returned to our seats to watch the rest of the enter-
tainment, and that was our last sight of Houdini. Only a few
weeks later, on October 31, 1926, as he was continuing his
tour westward, he was dead in a Detroit hospital of an acci-
dental blow in the abdomen received from a McGill Univer-
sity student with whom he had been sparring in his dressing
room at a Montreal theatre. Thus his friendly nature brought
about his death. In the interim I had had no letter from him,

Hours with a Magician 2 1 1

but a bundle of newspapers had reached me from Montreal
in which there were marked articles about himself and his
tour, with a few words of pencilled comment. He died at the
age of fifty-two, and anyone who cares to know the wonder-
ful story of a wonderful life may read it in many of its details
in the biography written by Harold L. Kellock with the as-
sistance of Mrs. Houdini.

His letters to me are now, with other characteristic Hou-
dini memorabilia, in the Theatre Collection of the Harvard
College Library, and they all give a view of the friendly and
informal manner of his correspondence. The upper part of
this "Lettergram" through the words "Cordially yours, Hou-
dini," is printed; the rest is written in his own hand.

(Hand) Permanent Address 278 West 113 St., New York City
(Portrait) LETTERGRAM (Portrait)

Please pardon any incivility in this letter. It has been rushed
to you under stress of business and written in the dressing-room.
Therefore all formalities like Dear Sir, Dear Madame, etc., have
been omitted not to be curt or brusque; but that it is deemed
better to let you hear from me in a lettergram of a few words than
not at all.

Cordially yours,

HOUDINI

Dear E. Thanks for letter. Sorry you did not bring Mrs. E. back
stage to meet my charming assistant. I am coming to B. some day
just to spend more time in your company. Regards

HOUDINI

Don't forget if you read that I am lecturing in or around B.
this is your invite. Please pardon scrawl. Constant dictation has
not helped beautify my penstrokes.

I have also two autographed books of his in my library;
one of them is inscribed with these words: "To my friend
E. F. Edgett Best wishes and regards Houdini. It has taken

2 1 2 / Speak for Myself

30 years constant work to be able to put some of my research
and experience between the covers of this book. Hope you
like it." It was published in 1924 and its title is "A Magician
Among the Spirits." The other book of his that I have is
"Miracle Mongers and Their Methods, a Complete Expos
of the Modus Operandi of Fire Eaters, Heat Resisters, Poison
Eaters, Venomous Reptile Defiers, Sword Swallowers, Human
Ostriches, Strong Men, etc.," and it was published in 1920.
He wrote several other books, among them "The Unmasking
of Robert-Houdin," from whom he derived his stage name.
His real name was Ehrich Weiss, and he was the son of Rabbi
Mayer Samuel Weiss, who with his wife, Cecilia Steiner, had
migrated from Hungary to Wisconsin shortly before he was
born.

The "charming assistant" he mentions in his "Lettergram"
is his wife, and here is a letter I received from her several
years after his death. She had written me earlier, but that
letter has apparently been lost.

28 RlDGELAND TERRACE,

RYE, N.Y. May 23, 1932
DEAR MR. EDGETT

On my return from Florida I found the clippings you so kindly
sent me. I wish to thank you for same. I believe I have met you.
I remember quite well that you were a valued friend to Houdini,
but since his death (I had been very ill) I do not remember so
keenly whether I knew you personally. However, I deeply appre-
ciate your thoughtfulness in not forgetting our beloved Houdini's
widow.

BEATRICE HOUDINI.

Not long ago I wrote to Mrs. Houdini through the legal
representatives of the magician in New York, for her permis-
sion to use these letters in this book, and it came from her
in the following words:

Hours with a Magician 2 1 3

HOLLYWOOD, CALIF.
January 8, 1940
DEAR MR. EDGETT:

It is a pleasure to recall the many times Houdini and I showed
in Boston and the hospitality and friendship of that lovely city.

I vividly recall that one of the highlights, always, was Houdini
looking forward to a chat and visit with you. It seemed that the
two of you had so much in common; that you both "spoke the
same language," as it were, and I am sure that Houdini, if he
could but know, would be pleased and honored in your desire
to include a letter from him to you, in your forthcoming auto-
biography.

It will also please you to know that the magicians of the United
States honor his memory by observing National Magic Day each
October gist, (Hallowe'en) which was the day our beloved Hou-
dini went on tour, forever. Eyes of Memory Never Sleep!
With all kind wishes to you and your loved ones, I am

Most Sincerely,

MRS. HARRY HOUDINI.

Houdini was so interested in the mystery of death and the
permanence of human personality in whatever other world
there may be that he left directions for the receipt of mes-
sages from him, if they were possible. As might have been
expected, these efforts to communicate with him have been
futile. But we have our memories of him, as Mrs. Houdini
suggests in her letter to me, and they will always persist in
the minds of those who knew him.

6O

A Writer of Biographies

TOWARDS THE END of the 19205 I received a letter from Dr.
Allen Johnson, former Professor of History in Yale Univer-
sity and other colleges, then beginning his duties as editor of
the new "Dictionary of American Biography," asking me if
I would contribute to that work. I gladly consented, and for
about ten succeeding years was busily engaged at intervals in
writing seventy of the biographical articles scattered through
its twenty volumes. My work in their writing, brief though
they were they ranged in length from five hundred to fif-
teen hundred words entailed much research into obscure
sources, the greater number dealing with the lives of actors,
actresses, dramatists and other people of the theatre.

Strange as it may seem to the uninitiated, the better known
the subject of a biography, the easier it is to find and assem-
ble facts and opinions about him. Minor persons necessitated
more time in seeking information, for their names are not
accessible in the more available books of reference. I had my
own files at home for ready consultation, and I found the
Harvard Theatre Collection a fruitful haven of both first
and last resort, for it contains a vast amount of the sort of
material I needed. At times I was compelled to engage in
personal correspondence with those I hoped might prove
helpful. Sometimes they were, and sometimes to my disap-

814

A Writer of Biographies 215

pointment they were not. A convenient resource was officials
of the towns in which these men and women about whom I
was writing were born, for as a rule I knew their birthplaces
and their approximate birth dates. Once or twice I was able
to discover that these dates had been purposely misstated
because of the common failing of humanity to claim an ap-
proximate youth not theirs.

We went along through the alphabet from A to Z; and of
course, in accordance with the rule in such reference books,
no one in the land of the living was included. This limit is
always necessary, for otherwise the work would extend to
inordinate length. One of my first subjects was Lawrence
Barrett, who proved to be easy; but when I reached Georgia
Cayvan I found stumbling blocks in my way. She was a very
popular actress of the last years of the nineteenth century,
and she had advanced into the stage profession from the
ranks of amateurdom. I knew that she was born in Bath,
Maine, and I wrote to the city clerk for details about her
early days there. He responded cordially, but was unable to
find the exact data I wanted, and referred me to two or
three old residents, but with a negative result. The best that
I could do was to give only 1858 as the year of her birth.
There also appeared to be a mystery about her surname, it
apparently being something like "Cayvan," but not exactly
that. After she had begun her stage career, my pathway was
not difficult, for her appearances in Boston, New York and
elsewhere were matters of definite record. At the outset of
her professional career she had appeared with the Ideal Opera
Company in "Pinafore," and as Jocasta in the Greek play,
"Oedipus Tyrannus," with George Riddle in the title role.

On the other hand came my success with Raymond Hitch-
cock. He was born in Auburn, New York, and to its city
clerk I wrote. At once came reply that he was glad to give
me anything I wanted to know about that actor, for they
were cousins. This was an amazing piece of good fortune,

2i6 / Speak for Myself

and along I went until I found the name of Stuart Robson
in my assignments, which were sent to me at regular inter-
vals by Dr. Johnson, and after his untimely death in an auto-
mobile accident by his successor, Dr. Dumas Malone, now
the Director of the Harvard University Press. The finances
of the Dictionary were sponsored by Adolph S. Ochs of the
New York Times to the extent of over half a million dollars.
The editorial offices were in Washington, so as to be near the
Library of Congress with its enormous reference resources.

I was not lacking information about Stuart Robson, who
will be remembered by all old-time playgoers for his long
association with William H. Crane, and later because he
chose to go his own w r ay as a solo star. He can never be for-
gotten by anyone who saw or heard him across the footlights,
for his quaint personality and peculiar squeaky voice made
him unable to act any character other than himself. I re-
member that in one of the annual Lambs Club shows, which
I saw at the Boston Theatre, there was a minstrel show, with
Stuart Robson as one of the end men and Nat Goodwin as
the other. Goodwin stood up and said he was going to sing
the famous old ditty, "With All Her Faults I Love Her
Still," as Robson used to sing it which he proceeded to do
to perfection, for he was a great mimic. Then Robson arose,
facing Goodwin from across the stage, and said, "I never
sang that song in all my life" and then sang it in the char-
acteristic Robsonian manner. But and this is the significant
part of the story Goodwin was more like Robson than Rob-
son was like himself, for of course he had sought to minimize
his vocal peculiarities as far as possible.

It happens that Stuart Robson was a name assumed by its
bearer for stage purposes, and that in private life he was
Henry Robson Stuart. Although I knew that, I thought it
would be well for me to obtain legal authority for this state-
ment, and I therefore wrote for its verification to the city
clerk of Annapolis, Maryland, where the actor was born in

A Writer of Biographies 217

1836. But this time I was not so fortunate. His reply was a
discourteous silence, possibly a rebuke for my curiosity. In
any event it was an offense of which no public official should
be guilty: it was his duty to answer my question. But there
are too many office holders who do not know their duty. If
he did not know what I asked him, he had simply to write
to me in these words: "I am sorry to say that the city records
lack the information you want."

When the letter S was reached soon after the Robson epi-
sode, I was assigned to write the story of Mary Shaw's life.
I was glad, for I had seen her on the stage, knew something
of her admirable qualities as an actress, and especially that
she \vas born in Boston. But my quest was not easy, and pro-
vided me with unforeseen difficulties. I was happy to enlist
the voluntary services of William M. Emery, my friend and
one-time Transcript associate, who was later to join what
might be called the "ex Transcript Club." He was a profes-
sional genealogist who made many valiant journeys into the
land of ancestral mysteries, and he immediately utilized his
talents to my advantage. Miss Shaw had given her birth year
in more than one reference book as 1860, but now had come
the time when the truth was to be told. At first she led us off
the beaten track, but when we learned that she had been a
teacher in the Boston public schools before she became an
actress, and that those years were from 1873 to 1878, we knew
there must be something wrong, for she could not have been
such a prodigy of learning and so advanced in physical stature
as to be able to teach school at the immature age of thirteen
or fourteen. This information was also verified by another
friend of mine, John H. Wilson, also of the Transcript staff.

Away went my friend Emery along a circuitous genealogi-
cal byway. By searching through all available records, espe-
cially those in city documents and municipal directories,
and in spite of the fact that no fewer than six children named
Mary Shaw were registered as having been born in Boston

2i8 / Speak for Myself

in the fifties, the choice was made of the one and only Mary
Shaw who was first a school teacher and then an actress. He
had found the Mary Shaw. All this trouble had been caused
by Miss Shaw's idea that she would succeed in her progress
if she were thought to be six years younger than she actually
was. She was born in 1854, and not in 1860. Let this be a
warning to actresses (and all others) who seek to disguise
their ages. The ways of genealogists are ruthless. Other phases
of these biographical researches of mine are numerous, and
it would not be difficult to make a sizable book of them.
Among those whose biographies I wrote were the two Rich-
ard Henry Danas, Henry C. De Mille, Kate Field, Robert
Mantell, John McCullough, James O'Neill, John E. Owens,
Joseph Proctor, Sol Smith Russell, William Seymour, Mrs.
J. R. Vincent and the two William Warrens.

61

As a Maker of Books

MY CAREER AS AN AUTHOR, although I doubt if I should use
so imposing a word to describe my slight efforts, covered
more than a quarter-century. I was really nothing better
than a maker of books, largely out of material that had been
printed in the Transcript. For many years, my friend John
Bouve Clapp, who in addition to his business as treasurer of
a large wholesale grocery firm made it an avocation to write
for the newspapers, and especially for the Transcript on stage
matters, was of great help to me in gathering historical and
biographical data on those subjects. It was our ambition at
first to write a history of the Boston theatres, carrying on the
story as it is told in William W. Clapp's "Record of the Bos-
ton Stage/' published as long ago as 1853; but we were so
busy with other things that we were obliged to abandon that
scheme, which was too much even for such enthusiasts as we
were. No one has yet succeeded in a task that would do for
Boston what Professor George C. D. Odell is doing for New
York. The only published supplement to the original Wil-
liam W. Clapp record that I know is the brief chapter ap-
pearing in the Memorial History of Boston. Mr. Clapp was
also for a long time editor of the Notes and Queries and
genealogical departments of the Transcript, and in that po-
sition he was succeeded by his daughter upon his death in
1921.

219

2Sjo / Speak for Myself

While I was dramatic editor, Mr. Clapp and I collaborated
on a gathering of brief articles that appeared daily in my col-
umns of the Transcript, and out of them we made four
volumes, three dealing with "Players of the Present" and one
with "Plays of the Present/' that were published with the
imprint of the Dunlap Society, an association of devotees of
the theatre and its interests that contributed some thirty
books to the already large accumulation of theatrical Ameri-
cana. This society was named in honor of William Dunlap,
the first historian of the American theatre, whose book was
published in two volumes in 1833. I also wrote a biography
of Edward Loomis Davenport, the American actor whose
reputation rivals that of the Booths, the Jeffersons and Edwin
Forrest, and this likewise appeared under the imprint of the
Dunlap Society.

My name also appears on the title page of a novel en-
titled "Nami Ko" as its co-translator with Sakae Shioya, but
I fear that that is somewhat misleading, since I do not know
a word of the language of Japan. My work was simply to put
my associate's Japanese English into a normal English ver-
sion of the original. One example I remember was "he shud-
dered his shoulders/' Since the novel was intended to arouse
the interest of a book-buying audience that was reading the
front-page newspaper accounts of the Russo-Japanese War
ravaging the Far East in 1904, its publishers hoped it would
be avidly sought by a public eager for more reading about
that conflict; but they were mistaken, and the book came
dead from the press, being now utterly forgotten.

Later I put together a little book of my quasi-versified
quips, each of a dozen lines or so, entitled "Slings and
Arrows/ 1 It too is dead, despite the clever illustrations from
drawings by Dwight Taylor, and liberal free advertising in
the Transcript. These ironical commentaries of mine on
human foibles were first printed in every Wednesday and
Saturday Transcript, and whatever favorable remarks they

As a Maker of Books 22 1

aroused as they were read in the paper rather displeased me
because of the implication that they were the only impor-
tant part of the Writers and Books column to which they
were appended. I was never informed by the publishers of
the book as to how many copies they sold, but I doubt if the
total reached even as high as one hundred. The fact that I
did not receive a cent of royalty did not displease me, for
I had not expected any. My efforts as a compiler or writer
of books thereupon ended until I began work on this auto-
biography.

My Friend Jackson

HERE AND THERE Herbert I. Jackson (his middle name is
Irving, but his first name is not Henry) appears among my
personages, and he might as well now have a scene all to
himself (with myself) among the many who are making their
entrances and exits on my stage. He bears the same relation
to my later dramatis personae as James Walter Smith does
to my earlier, for over a long period we have been closely
associated while the drama of our lives has gone forward
from act to act. Our joint interest in the theatre brought
and has held us together, in spite of the divergence in our
temperaments, and our contradictory likes and dislikes. For
years we saw each other daily if only for a few minutes, and
there were other days when we spent many uninterrupted
hours at work, at the play, at dinner in town, and on our
vacations at Monadnock Mountain in company with our
wives.

He came in to see me at the office for the first time I can-
not remember on what errand, but doubtless it was some-
thing to do with the theatre about 1905, and since then
there has been no gap of any considerable length in our con-
stant meetings. Noon after noon he would look in on me
during his luncheon hour, and morning after morning he
would stop at my door for scarcely more than a minute be-

My Friend Jackson 223

fore going to his work. He was and he is a man of many
vocations and avocations a professional coach of amateur
theatricals, an amateur actor himself, a practitioner of the
art of ''making up" the faces of actors, a worker in the office
of Charles E. Goodspeed, the Boston bookseller, an extra-
illustrator of books, an inlayer and mounter of prints, a col-
lector of stage memorabilia, a But this is intended to be
only an abridged list of his manifold activities. An extraor-
dinary man, an accumulator of wealth, you may say? Ah, to
the first the answer will be "Yes," to the second it will be an
emphatic "No." For these arts and crafts of his have brought
him a rather precarious income far below the value of his
work, because it is so impermanent and seasonal. And also
for some years, the interest in his work has sadly declined.

After expedients in trying to earn his living at bill-collect-
ing and other incidental employments, he began to see his
way at last towards a gleam of light. He started the practice
and mastered the art of extra-illustrating, a dual word that
needs explanation. A half-century or so ago Lucius Poole
was doing it with some profit to himself in his room in a
side street in the South End of Boston. Herbert knew him
and by means of a little quiet observation he acquired the
technique readily, and from that day to this he has worked
at it steadily, although as I have said he is not wealthy
yet.

What is extra-illustrating? It is the making of books by
enlarging them with illustrative odds and ends, principally
pictures pertinent to the names and events of the text. It is
also known as Grangerizing, from the name of the man who
first practiced the robbing of many books of their pages in
order to consolidate them compactly into a single volume.
What Herbert does is to mount pictures or other printed or
written material on sheets of the size of the book he is work-
ing on, or of a larger size if he wants to increase its dimen-
sions. This operation is performed by inlaying or splitting

224 I Speak for Myself

the paper so that the new book when completed will lie flat
and be no thicker than it is made by the sheets of paper
added to it. How does he do it? Well, it is not much of a
secret, but Herbert manages the way of it for himself, and
so have done a few others who have not his skill or energy.
There is no need of my going into the details of a somewhat
complex technique.

Herbert Jackson did this sort of work day by day through
eighteen years as a salaried employee, but he was finally re-
tired when the profits on his work declined to the vanishing
point. In the evening he would also work at home on books
for the increase of his personal library, to give to his friends,
and for his self-satisfaction. It was a sort of busman's holiday
for him. He has had for a long time in his possession a set of
Shakspeare's works that he extended to what will be thirty-
six volumes when they are bound, and he has also completed
many other pieces of extra-illustrative work comparable to
that achievement.

Among several examples of his work that he has presented
to me is the little life of Edwin Booth written by Professor
Charles Townsend Copeland and published in 1901 in the
Beacon Biographies series. Every leaf of the original book is
increased from 3% by 51^ inches to 61/4 by 914 inches in
size, with the thickness of the book enlarged from one-half
inch to two inches. Inserted in the book are portraits, play-
bills and other appropriate materials dealing with the many
matters mentioned in the course of Professor Copeland's life
of the famous actor. The book is bound in half red morocco,
and has become by means of the gentle art of extra-illustrat-
ing an octavo volume. He also made another and much
larger extra-illustrated copy of the same book, and this now
belongs to Professor Copeland himself. Another specimen of
the same kind of work given to me by Herbert Jackson is an
extended copy of my biography of Edward Loomis Daven-
port. All this is, however, not the end of his off-time eve-

My Friend Jackson 225

ning activities. He goes here, there and everywhere within
reach of his home in Hyde Park in order to coach or to
make up amateur theatrical companies. Those were his very
busy days, but their permanent value has been for him the
pleasure of their doing. Their substantial worth is very
slight.

All this refers to Herbert's professional life, information
about which he has given me during our frequent meetings;
the rest is personal. He is about six feet tall, which is five
inches taller than I, with a shock of pompadour hair that
was gray when I first knew him, but that has become almost
white with his advancing years. Often while walking along
the street he is taken for a Catholic priest, which seems to
please him. Like me, he is gifted with a good appetite and a
versatile thirst, but unlike me, he lives upon a voluntary
special diet that he will never deviate from. He cares not for
what to many are the delicacies of the table, in fact he is
very much averse to them. Among these are cheese, fat meat,
rich gravy and salad dressing. He also dislikes what he calls
''German vegetables," which to him mean everything except
potatoes, peas, beans and corn, and since the former com-
prise more than three-quarters of the vegetable section of
any menu, his bill of fare is very restricted. But there is no
danger of his starving, especially as he is fond of cake and
other forms of sweet desserts, and he likes milk, which I
abominate. We have always got along very companionably
together at the table, whether in a restaurant, in either of
our homes, or in the seclusion of my room at the Transcript,
where usually twice a week we ended our day's work with
our dinner spread before us on my typewriter desk.

For several years we would dine together at the Bell in
Hand, an English-style public house in Williams Court, a
narrow alley off Washington Street locally known as Pie
Alley (not Pi Alley, as it is frequently misspelled), and there
we indulged to our hearts' (and stomachs') content in sand-

I Speak for Myself

wiches and mugs of ale of varying strength. It closed in 1920
in forced obedience to the commands of the prohibitionists.
Its ancient sign, consisting of an arm and hand holding a
bell, with the legend "A.D. 1795" on its base, is now pre-
served as an historical relic in the rooms of the Bostonian
Society in the Old State House. After the closing of this inn
we were turned adrift for a short time, but we soon solved
our problem by setting up the aforesaid improvised table in
my editorial quarters.

Since I left the Transcript, we have gone for a noontide
luncheon every Friday in a more pretentious tavern of the
same name not far away, and our party has grown in number
from two to four, now including our friend Frank S. Am-
brose, and another who is equally our friend, Charles S.
Warshauer, by whom our meeting hours are enlivened with
conversation that gives us occasional glimpses of the law,
which happens to be his profession. He rarely speaks of the
matter, but he served as a major with the American forces
during the World War and thus helped to win the abortive
victory over Germany. I am the oldest of this gathering of
four, with Frank Ambrose the youngest, and Herbert Jackson
and Charles Warshauer midway between.

While I am dwelling on this culinary subject, I must not
overlook my record as a patron during fifty years of a favorite
"spa" in the newspaper district of downtown Boston, with
counters for tables and stools for chairs. During the past
decade or so I have been going to the counter presided over
by "Molly," and whenever she has been taking a day off and
is not there to welcome us, we are disappointed, although
we have nothing to say against her competent substitutes.
With a half-dozen men of varying employments, we have
taken our luncheons there at the rather early hour of quar-
ter past eleven, and we have seemed to form an unorganized
club without officers, indulging in happy-go-lucky conversa-
tion upon many and varied themes. We would assemble one

My Friend Jackson 227

after another, and when we drifted out in the same manner
it was always with a happy outlook for the coming together
the following noon. As is said so frequently, "those were the
happy days/' and there are still happy days in our lives, and
many to come, I hope.

My references to the making of holidays into days of work
in my office, instead of remaining at home away from my
daily in-town activities, brings to my mind my idiosyncrasies
about anniversaries, secular or religious, political or histor-
ical, personal or impersonal. I care nothing about the senti-
mental significance of Good Friday or Christmas, Washing-
ton's Birthday or the Fourth of July, and I have never been
able to excite myself over the first of January as New Year's
Day, for to me every day is the beginning of a new year, even
though the number of the year remains unchanged. What
especially gladdened me about some holidays was that they
offered me the opportunity for a quiet day at the office with-
out interruption by telephone, or by personal visits from
anyone. One holiday, however, I always spent at home, and
that was Christmas, when I especially enjoyed the customary
dinner with family and friends as it was followed by the sub-
sequent festivities during which there was an array of pres-
ents notable not especially for their value, but merely as
contributions to the gayety of the occasion.

Those holidays at the office enabled me to do a good day's
work all by myself in clearing up a large amount of accumu-
lated material, correspondence, newspapers and magazines,
ending the day with a dinner in company with my friend
Jackson as it was spread on my desk, and then winding up
the festivities with an evening at the theatre. Eloquent evi-
dence of Jackson's enjoyment was to be seen by the fact that
he had come into Boston from his home in Hyde Park espe-
cially for the banquet, and possibly also for the pleasure of
my company.

63

Ten Tears on the Radio

Now I COME to what was one of the most important and
happiest episodes in all my professional life, continuing al-
most exactly ten years. I have never been, and I have never
had the slightest desire to be a public speaker. I have no
qualifications for the art, or whatever it may be called, and
I congratulate myself that I have declined many invitations
to address an audience, even at the risk of being considered
discourteous and unaccommodating. I had listened to so
many dull talks, speeches and orations that I decided never
to make myself obnoxious in that manner. Of course I may
have done it in some other way, but why add to those ways?
These ten years cover the period of my broadcasting. My
radio talks about books and authors, beginning on June 24,
1927, and ending on April 22, 1937, belong in another cate-
gory than that of public speaking. I made no personal ap-
pearance in them and was conscious of no audience. I should
never have entered upon them but for the insistent requests
of the Transcript management. My good friend John Cutler,
at one time managing editor and for twenty years and more
a member of the Transcript staff, was extremely solicitous
about my doing these talks. Before and during them, and
after I had succumbed to many appeals he was so active in
their and my interest that I would jocosely refer to him as

Ten Years on the Radio 229

"my manager." For a long time, I gave an advance manu-
script of the talks to him, and he wrote the advertisement of
them that was published conspicuously every Friday on one
of the Transcript pages.

After I had given the fourth talk, John Cutler came to my
room quite excitedly one morning, accompanied by Mr.
Mandell, and insisted that they be printed verbatim each
week in the Transcript; and after a brief discussion as to
whether their publication would diminish their appeal over
the radio, it was done, and they could be read thereafter as
well as listened to. This newspaper printing was in addition
to their appearance in a four-page leaflet form, of which
several hundred copies were printed each week and distrib-
uted to booksellers, publishers and anyone interested in
them. That was fortunate for me, for I was able to have them
bound in book form, and their three volumes now stand on
my library shelves ready for reference or to enable me to re-
call the past. Occasionally they have furnished me with ideas
or material for the writing of subsequent articles, and for
freshening my memory during my work on this autobiog-
raphy.

After I began these talks, requests came to me so frequently
to address audiences that I was constantly embarrassed be-
cause I was forced to give so many refusals. I was implacable,
for as I have said, it has always been my stern determination
not to speak in public. Again and again, after I had replied
with a polite yet positive no, I was met with the remark,
"But you speak over the radio," which I invariably coun-
tered with "Yes, but there's a great difference between
speaking face to face with an assembly of one hundred or
one thousand, or whatever the number may be, and speaking
to an invisible audience of an unknown size, and that can
leave at will without my knowledge if they are dissatisfied
with what I am saying."

If this statement was not understood, when it was made

230 I Speak for Myself

in personal correspondence or in conversation, I was forced
to make a rather elaborate explanation something like this:
" In broadcasting in a radio studio, I am simply reading a
prepared manuscript, with nobody present and visible except
the operator behind a window in the control room, and
possibly the announcer near by and a visitor or two in the
corridor that overlooks the room." If the announcer leaves
the room while I am speaking, as he often does, he returns
just in time to "sign me off" after I read my last words.
His cue from my lips at the end of the talk was always
"Thank you and good afternoon," or "good evening," as the
case might be.

Speakers in public frequently say that their first attempts
before a microphone are extremely disconcerting because of
the silence without a visible audience; but that never hap-
pened to me, for I had never had a visible audience. Yet
and here perhaps I am inconsistent I may say that it was
pleasant to be accompanied into the studio by a friend or
two, and that I never objected to the presence of the an-
nouncer or the operator. In fact, I was never more pleased
than at the conclusion of a talk on the Dictionary one after-
noon when the operator, John Lawler, and the announcer,
John McNamara, who later became program director of
WBZ, greeted me with a handshake each, and told me that
they had enjoyed immensely what I had said. To please any-
one who passes all his working hours in the midst of radio
speaking and other programs justifiably filled my heart with
pride.

These radio talks continued, with a few intermissions,
through ten years, first from the Transcript's own station,
WBET, second from WNAC, then affiliated with the Colum-
bia Broadcasting System, and third from WBZ and WBZA,
the dual station of the National Broadcasting Company,
with studios in Boston and Springfield. I spoke for this last
from its studio in the Hotel Bradford on Tremont Street in

Ten Years on the Radio 231

Boston. There was an interval of about eight months be-
tween my WNAC and WBZ broadcasts during which I wrote
the talks as if they had been spoken, and they were published
every Saturday in the Book Section of the Transcript, al-
though not broadcast.

This non-broadcasting period began in June, 1931, and
continued until the following February, when represent-
atives of WBZ approached George E. Stephenson, then at
the head of the Transcript business management, and solicited
my weekly appearance on their station as a "sustaining pro-
gram," which means that there was no charge for my time,
and that it was without the backing of a commercial sponsor.
Thereafter I had an uninterrupted term under the auspices
of the National Broadcasting Company for an unusual
length of time, a little over five years, ending in April, 1937.
Twice during those months I was called upon for two spe-
cial broadcasts, one on Poe and the other on Dickens. I also
read once from the poems of Robert Frost over station
WEEI, and on two afternoons thereafter I gave eight-minute
broadcasts on books from a pick-up booth over WORL in
the City News Room of the Transcript.

My method of preparing these talks all set down in type-
script before I approached the microphonewas my own, al-
though there was nothing novel or original about it. I could
place no reliance upon my memory or notes, for I knew I
should be stricken dumb if I went "on the air" with nothing
before me from which to read. I began the writing of each
broadcast about a week before its delivery. I would assemble
my books, my printed and written material of all sorts on my
prospective themes, with some odd sheets of blank paper and
an assortment of well sharpened pencils within reach of my
hand.

I always made my first rough draft with a pencil. I would
write hurriedly, knowing that I would make several more
rough drafts before the talk was finished to my satisfaction.

232 / Speak for Myself

Then I would go to my typewriter, and tap off the prelimi-
nary talk on the keys, making frequent changes as I went
along. That was the second stage of the development of the
talk. The third stage came with the resumption of the pencil
by which I made interlineations and inserted paragraphs as
new ideas came to me for elaboration. Even then I was not
through. To the typewriter again, on which I made a fair
copy for my reading at the microphone. In fact, I made sev-
eral fair copies with the aid of carbon paper. With a final re-
reading, and perhaps a few extra words here and there, I
awaited the hour when I was to make my invisible appear-
ance before my audience.

Response of My Audiences

DURING ALL THESE YEARS I was the recipient of many ques-
tions about my talks, some of them sensible and some non-
sensical. Perhaps the most frequent and absurd question was
something like this: "How long do you expect it to be before
you run out of topics?" or "Pretty soon you won't have any-
thing left to talk about, will you?" These queries implied an
impossibility, for they suggested that there was a limited
number of books and authors to furnish me with themes. If
they were asked casually, I usually responded with a laugh,
and a few words of explanation that were not difficult, al-
though I doubt if sometimes my interlocutor saw the point.
As long as there are books, as long as there are authors to
write them, as long indeed as there is life, and ink and pen
and paper, or a typewriter, there will always be books to talk
about. There will always be new books sometimes I think
there are too many but even though there were none, there
are always the old books and the old-time authors to discuss.
Often I am delighted to talk about them in preference to the
latest products of the presses.

Hence the task of selecting topics for my talks was easy.
My embarrassment, if any, was in the way of riches. No in-
spiration, real or fancied, was necessary. My themes came to
me: I did not have to seek them. All things in heaven or hell,

234 I Speak for Myself

on the earth or in the waters of the earth, or in the skies,
confronted me for description or discussion, for approval or
disapproval. I am here reminded of a story about a Bishop of
London who at a public meeting was interrupted, or heckled,
as they call it in England, by a constant opponent in his
audience. "Do you really believe/' queried the interrupter,
"that Jonah lived three days and nights in the belly of the
whale?" "When I get to heaven I'll ask him," was the quick
reply. "But suppose you don't find Jonah in heaven," per-
sisted the tormentor. "Then you can ask him," was the
Bishop's final thrust, thus putting an end to the heckling,
even if not clinching the argument. Fortunately, there was
no chance of a heckler interrupting me as I sat at the micro-
phone. The radio is a one-way invention.

A touch of humor now and then lightened the course of
these broadcasting adventures. It began at the very begin-
ning. The morning after my first talk I went up to the
Transcript composition room, and was arrested by one of my
best friends there with these words: "I heard you last eve-
ning, Mr. Edgett, but I couldn't stay until you finished,
because I had to leave to go to a prize fight." Another com-
position-room man, overhearing something said about my
broadcasting, remarked in a surprised tone: "Why, are you
going on the air, Mr. Edgett?" For days previously I had
been advertised in full-page large-type advertisements, with
my portrait. Obviously, he did not read the Transcript. One
of my reviewers came into my room one morning and said
casually: "I heard your broadcast the other afternoon. You
had Mr. Redmond for an announcer, didn't you?" I told
him he was right, and the words I heard in reply were:
"Well, he's good." From another compositor came this:
"Your voice on the radio is one hundred per cent better than
in ordinary conversation." And this reminds me, if I may say
it, that I heard more about my "wonderful voice" than I did
about the substance of my talks, so often that the words

Response of My Audiences 235

"wonderful voice" became a derisive jest in our household.

To broadcast over a long period is to make many friend-
ships, and perhaps a few enmities. I have kept all the letters
and post cards I received, and they run far into the thou-
sands, which is not extraordinary in view of the long time I
was giving the talks. Sometimes I would be stopped on the
street by those I knew, and would be compelled to listen to
praise, and also I was occasionally accosted by strangers who
appeared to know me by sight. One acquaintance hailed me,
and said he thought he had caught me in a mispronunciation
and intended to telephone to me about it, but fortunately he
looked up the word in the dictionary and found that I was
right. The word was "recondite." Now and then I would be
cordially greeted at the studio, after I had ended my quarter-
hour, by someone who had come there especially to see and
hear me. One visitor told me that he found it more enjoy-
able to look at me through the studio window from the cor-
ridor than to receive the talk from the radio set at his club.
I was especially gratified to discover that blind men and
women found diversion and comfort in listening to me; they
would write or telephone me and thereby express their
pleasure.

Some memories of listeners persist quite unexpectedly
about the broadcasts that are past and gone. Not only do
they linger a week or a month, but even now, three years
after my last talk about books and authors over the radio, I
have my mind brought vividly back to the days between 1928
and 1937 when I was addressing my invisible audience
weekly. It is quite exciting and perhaps flattering when either
my wife or I encounter someone hitherto unknown to us who
asks the question: "You used to broadcast for the Transcript,
didn't you?" A man in an office in Cambridge, when I showed
him my card, inquired immediately: "You are the Mr. Edgett
whom I used to listen to, aren't you?" I was glad to be able
to say "Yes." An upholsterer came to see us about repairing a

236 / Speak for Myself

chair, and upon inquiry as to my profession he told us that his
wife had been my regular listener some years ago, and that
she regretted the discontinuance of my talks. These are
merely two instances among many. So it seems impossible for
us to live down our pasts of a more or less public nature.

Occasional illogical objections reached me that were amus-
ing even when they were justified. I remember a letter from
a listener in Vermont who rebuked me for confusing the
two Sheridans, Thomas the father and Richard the son, with
a remark that a teacher should know better. I retorted that
it was not impossible for me to err, for I certainly had made a
mistake, but that I held no claim to be a teacher. Evidence of
the far reach of the radio came to me many times, especially
with the visit of a young man who had just returned from
London, where he listened to me by means of a short wave
set not then very common. He was Arthur Bernon Tourtellot,
who later reviewed books for me with exceptional skill. I
had a letter from Honolulu saying not that the sender had
heard me there, but that he read my talks as they were printed
in the Transcript. That gratified me almost as much as if he
had received my message directly through the air.

Listening at the Radio

THERE is ANOTHER ASPECT of my story of the radio. Not only
have I been a radio talker, but I have been and still am a
radio listener. My first set was acquired in the June of 1924,
just in time to listen to the sessions of the Republican
National Convention in Cleveland when Coolidge was nom-
inated for the presidency. At one end is the microphone, the
broadcaster, the transmitter and all the control apparatus;
at the other end is the receiving set, the antenna and the
listener; but we scarcely think of all this when we are hearing
the voices and all the other sounds from afar. This first set
of mine was so small that it could be carried about in one
hand or under the arm; it had two tubes and ran on dry cells
and a wet battery, with no loud speaker. Including this
first set, I have had six sets in all, and the latest, but not
necessarily the last, has fourteen tubes, is connected with the
electricity in my home, and therefore needs no batteries for
its operation. It stands on the floor, and is so heavy that it
requires the united efforts of at least two men to move.

For sixteen years I have therefore enjoyed listening to
speaking and musical programs of all sorts until the radio has
become a necessity and not a luxury. Of course many pro-
grams are a nuisance, but no one is compelled to listen to all
of them. There is no entertaining feature of our modern lives

237

238 / Speak for Myself

that can be made so selective. You can take them or leave
them, as you please, except when through your open windows
come their unwelcome sounds. But even these are often
avoidable. Some speaking programs are worth hearing, and
so also some of the music the real music, I mean, and not the
cacophonous din of swing, jazz and other orchestras led by
certain conductors whose names, I regret to say, mean little
to me, except as representatives of sounds that are the reverse
of sweet. But there is no compulsion to listen to them.

Among my favorite programs are those that bring to me the
proceedings of the national political conventions of either
party. Sixteen years have passed since the most notable of
them, which reminded me of the famous conflict of 1860 of
which I have read, when two Democratic candidates were
nominated, and another candidate of the short-lived Con-
stitutional Union party provided Abraham Lincoln with
three opponents. The famous Democratic split in that year
bid fair at one time to be repeated in 1924, but a compromise
candidate was nominated who went down in ignominious de-
feat before Calvin Coolidge. This Democratic convention in
1924 lasted three weeks, and kept me seated at my radio
whenever I could tear myself away from my work, and that
was often. No fewer than 103 ballots were taken before the
Democratic problem was solved, if not necessarily healed. I
well remember the impressive, though not convincing,
speeches made then by William Jennings Bryan, who holds
the honor of having been defeated three times for the pres-
idency. I shall never forget one amusing clause in the party
platform of 1924 which consisted of these words: "A vote for
Coolidge is a vote for chaos." Whereupon the members of
the convention proceeded to have a very merry chaos of their
own.

I like also to listen to political campaign and other speeches,
and none gave me greater pleasure than Herbert Hoover's
during the two contests of 1928 and 1932, and also in all these

Listening at the Radio 239

years when that great president has been striving to set the
country and the world aright out of the disorder into which
it has fallen because of the preposterous New Deal. I never
listen to the dulcet tones of F. D. Roosevelt, for I do not care
to bring into my happy home the overrated voice of its super-
exponent.

Sometimes I listen to Sunday sermons, or parts of them, but
my chief satisfaction in them is derived from the ease with
which I am able to leave the church and its ceremonies with-
out disturbing any other members of the congregation. And
it is not only the sermon that reaches my ears; so faithful is
the radio that I can hear the swish of the water as the clergy-
man leads the candidates for membership by immersion into
and out of the baptismal font. It brings back to me memories
of the days when I was present in a Baptist church at many
of those ceremonies, among them being the monthly com-
munion service when the pastor broke up the bread and
poured out the wine for delivery by the deacons to the
parishioners seated in the pews. I was too young to partake
of them myself, and also I was not a church member.

My especial delight in radio music is during the winter
months when I listen to the Saturday afternoon performances
at the Metropolitan Opera House, which have the added ad-
vantage of bringing through to my radio set the notable
personality and unmatchable voice of Milton J. Cross as an-
nouncer. He adds not a little to the pleasure of those broad-
casts. I am a lover of the good old-fashioned melodious operas,
usually derided by the latter-day music critics, among them be-
ing "Lucia di Lammermoor," "II Trovatore," "La Traviata,"
"Rigoletto," "Faust," "Ai'da," "Carmen," and "The Barber
of Seville." They are genuine and continuous melody, which
every opera and every musical composition should be. An
opera without melody is as incomplete as a novel that does
not tell a story.

Unfortunately music nowadays seems to have fallen from

24 I Speak for Myself

its high estate, and to be written for its eccentricities instead
of for its concord of sweet sounds. I like portions of the Wag-
ner music dramas, notably "Lohengrin," "Tannhauser," and
a part of the first act of "Die Walkiire," but I cannot under-
stand the reason for the fulsome laudation of "Tristan und
Isolde." Neither do I care for the later Verdi of "Otello" and
"Falstaff." By saying all this I suppose I am running the
risk of being called an old fogy or a barbarian, but why
should I withhold my honest opinion? Some of the modern
operas give me a little pleasure, but I am incapable of going
into raptures over them. To listen to what one likes over the
radio certainly helps to make life worth living. We owe a
huge debt of gratitude to the broadcasting companies and
the radio stations for their entertainment. What if they do
intersperse a little advertising in it? But for that we should
not be given many of our favorite programs.

66

Controversial Comment

IT MAY SEEM STRANGE, but my radio talks upon books and
authors brought me into deeper and more emphatic con-
troversies than did any of my formal printed book reviews.
That happened, undoubtedly, because of the superior appeal
of the human voice, whether these talks were actually heard,
or read with the knowledge that they might have been heard.
Moreover, they dealt, as do books, with everything within
the scope of ideas that inspire the mind to its most vigorous
expression. The authors were explicit and positive, and there-
fore why should I not be the same, since I had the additional
vocal advantage? Several themes in the course of my talks were
certain to arouse protest and argument in the minds of my
listeners to such a degree that they would write to me in the
most vehement terms. Therefore, why should I not also be
vehement? And I was. Among these controversial themes
were politics and religion, the Shakspeare-Bacon delusion,
science and dumb animals, especially cats with their many
enemies and friends. Chapters could be written of my re-
action on all these and other subjects, but I must confine
myself to only a few of the episodes that added spice to my
life of broadcasting.

Here is one example, and it has to do with history and
politics. After looking through a book called by its author

241

242 / Speak for Myself

"The Needless War/' I stated and emphasized my belief that
many wars had been anything but needless. The war to which
this writer referred was the Civil War, and I feel I am justi-
fied in making a more or less permanent record of my beliefs
regarding that specific war and regarding war in general as
a means of settling political disputes.

While it is undeniable that war is a terrible, a deplorable
and an unsatisfactory method of settling a controversy, it is
equally true that as long as man is what he is and what he has
been through eons of time, and as long as he has running
in his veins the current of the fighting instinct, so long will
war and the possibility of war persist. Only with the eradica-
tion of this fighting instinct will war cease. That is a con-
summation as unlikely to be achieved as it is devoutly to be
wished. The fact that two men in a prize-fighting ring can
gather in these supposed civilized times thousands upon thou-
sands of spectators to watch their brutal and degrading con-
test is evidence of the prevailing liking for a fight. In view of
this tendency, it is no wonder that nations go to war, for
nations are nothing more than aggregations of individuals.

It should, I believe, be obvious to anyone who knows the
history of our nation that there have been three absolutely
necessary wars, if the United States was to arise and endure.
These three wars may be described accurately as sacred wars
fought in the name of humanity, and they are the Revolution-
ary War, the Civil War and the World War. The first was the
struggle for freedom against the thralldom of England; the
second established a solidarity that had long threatened us
with disruption until in 1865 it ended for good and all the
controversial problems of secession and slavery; the third
was a contest to save this country from domination by Ger-
many and its allied powers. It was also fought to save the
whole of Europe from the same domination, but unfor-
tunately another war is now in progress over twenty years
later for the same object.

Controversial Comment 243

None of these statements can be denied by anyone who
knows American history. The Revolutionary War was fought
by us with the aid of France; the Civil War was fought by
the Union alone, in other words by the United States as a
whole, and as we were aided by loyal Southerners; the World
War was a war in which we were an important and decisive,
although belated, factor as the ally of a group of European
democratic nations. We entered it not "to make the world
safe for democracy," as has been ineptly reiterated many
times since that phrase was originated by Woodrow Wilson,
but as was inelegantly said by George Harvey, "to save our
skins. " All these wars were fought in the cause of righteous-
ness, patriotism and eventual peace. To call any of them a
"needless war" is to reveal a deep misunderstanding of the
forces, the trends and the outcome of human progress. Only
in the making of the peace won in the World War did our
political representatives go astray. Unhappily, the conquered
nations were not forced to realize that they were beaten. It
was apparent not long after the treaty was signed that the
peace was not to be a lasting peace. The German people and
the German government should have been compelled to real-
ize that they were and must remain conquered. Thereby we
might have been saved the horrors of further German aggres-
sion.

These three wars were all of them as foreordained as they
were necessary. Nothing could have prevented them. They
had to be waged. Blood had to be spilled, since human nature
is what it is. They were absolutely essential wars fought and
apparently won. Retreat would have meant dishonor. If the
Civil War had not come in 1861, it would have come later.
This nation, as Lincoln said, could not endure half slave and
half free, and neither could a house stand that was divided
against itself. The theory of secession had to be brought to
naught; the nation must remain indivisible. The Civil War
saved and reestablished the nation. I have been told that I

244 I Speak for Myself

am in favor of war. I certainly am not, nor have I ever been.
I am simply affirming my belief that certain wars have been
inevitable in determining the fate of nations.

I may as well at this point touch upon an aspect of the
Civil War as it affects a certain participant in it. He was
a graduate of the West Point Military Academy, and he
served in the United States army until 1861. He had accepted
a commission of Colonel in March, and within a few months
he was fighting against his country as a General in the Con-
federate States army. After the failure of his attempt to de-
stroy his country he returned to the ranks of peace and dur-
ing his last years, which continued only until 1870, he was
president of Washington College, later known as Washington
and Lee University, at Lexington, Virginia. His name was
Robert E. Lee, and there has grown up what may be called
the General Lee legend, which seeks to force upon us the
idea that, since he was a great soldier and great leader in
time of battle, he was therefore a great patriot. He may
have been the one; he certainly was not the other, for no
man is a patriot who fights against his country.

Twice at least during the years of my radio talks I was at-
tacked with a violence which appeared to indicate that I had
no right to speak upon controversial problems in politics or
religion, despite the fact that they dominate the human mind.
The first of these problems related to Galileo and his fall
from grace in the eyes of his church; the second relates to
General Lee and his decision that he owed his allegiance first
to his native state of Virginia, and then, if at all, to his equally
native United States. When I argued in favor of Galileo, I
was told in print that I should stick to my literary last and not
invade the realms of science and religion. When I remarked
calmly yet positively that Lee was a traitor because he deserted
and fought against his country after being educated at its
expense as a soldier, and serving it thereafter in time of peace
and war, I was told that I did not know what I was talking

Controversial Comment 245

about. Nevertheless, that is what Lee did and what he was.
My exact words were: "During four years he did his utmost
to destroy his own country. ... If General Lee was a patriot,
what was Abraham Lincoln? Unless we change the meaning
of the word it is impossible for both to be patriots/'

The editor of a religious paper (strange indeed, is it not,
that it happened to be a paper dedicated to the interests of
religion?) answered me in the course of an editorial headed
"A Flare-Back to Provincialism and Bigotry/' These were his
words: "At any rate, when he [Lee] was faced with war be-
tween his country and what almost overnight became a
foreign power to him and his, Lee stuck by his people and
his state." You will note, if you please, that this opponent of
mine acknowledges that the United States was Lee's own
country, and that he fought against it. My clerical critic's
final words were: "But this belated revival of Northern in-
tolerance, dead as a door-nail in any recognized field of
scholarship, does not fit in with the breadth and honesty of
most of Mr. Edgett's work." Well, I suppose that these last
words, "breadth and honesty," were intended to placate me,
and possibly change my opinion. But I remain of the same
opinion still about Galileo and Lee. These and other contro-
versial matters cheered me during the ten years of my broad-
casting about books and authors, and I like to revert to them.
I did not expect, and I did not want, commendation and
agreement all the time.

Some readers may think that now I am descending from
the sublime to the ridiculous, but I am sure I am not doing
that when I come to the defense of cats. My letters of praise
for what I said about them in my radio talks were many
more than my letters of blame. One of the latter sticks in my
mind, but I copy it directly from its written pages, which
were anonymous, and as will be seen excessively irate. "Cats,
beautiful cats," exclaims my correspondent, almost lyrically
as well as ironically, "who delight in torturing their victims,

246 / Speak for Myself

never killing a mouse outright, and are said to deprive a
rabbit of one leg at a time, exulting in its misery. I thank
God I was never guilty of keeping one of these animals under
my roof/' Now, whether this be truthful or not, it is not fair.
Cats are as God made them, and so is man as God made him.
If cats are cruel, so is man cruel, abominably cruel, a thou-
sand times more cruel than cats. Man is cruel to his fellow
man as well as to animals. And man is supposed to have the
advantage of the soul that it is customary to deny to animals.
Do not men hunt in the woods, shoot animals and allow
them to die by inches amid the utmost torture? Do not men
catch animals in traps? Do not men hook fish and allow them
to gasp for breath, and all in the name of sport? Why should
cats be denounced for doing what men do in immeasurably
greater degree? There seems to be no logic in the minds of
these cat-haters, whether the cats be of the petted household
variety, or the tigers and lions of the forest. All this is from
the heart, for during many years we have had the companion-
ship of one lovable cat, and sometimes more than one.

67

Another of My Actor Friends

LONG BEFORE THE DAYS when I came to know him, George
W. Wilson succeeded William Warren as leading comedian
of the Boston Museum stock company, and he remained with
that organization the greater part of the time until its dis-
bandment in the late nineties, after I had become the Tran-
script literary editor. He then looked in on me to say good-
bye and to thank me for the generous treatment he had re-
ceived from my predecessors in that position. He was about
to leave Boston to travel at the head of his own company for
a few seasons. I had seen him act many times in the wide
range of characters that had fallen to his lot on the Museum
stage, and had greatly admired him across the footlights. It
was a long time thereafter that our personal friendship began.
He was then passing his last years in retirement, and his life
would have been lonesome indeed without occasional contact
with the many Bostonians who remembered him well at the
height of his popular favor when the Boston Museum was
an influential factor in the theatrical life of the city.

From time to time, from the outset of our acquaintance,
he would look in to see me at the Transcript. He was always
welcome, no matter how busy I was. Going up to the WNAC
studio for my weekly broadcast one evening, I was surprised
to see him seated there awaiting me. He had come to listen

47

248 / Speak for Myself

to me there instead of relying upon a receiving set, and
thereafter I was almost certain of having him with me every
week. At first he listened in the outer room reserved for
guests; but the conversation there annoyed him so much that
he was given permission to sit near me in the broadcasting
room. When I had finished my quarter-hour we would leave
the studio together, and journey downtown from the WNAC
rooms in Governor Square by way of the subway, I to go
home and he to take in one of the theatres at which he had
the entree.

His eyesight was extremely defective, and I would hold
him back by the arm to prevent his dashing recklessly across
the street in the face of the automobile traffic. At last the
fatal hour came, and on a Monday morning I read at the
breakfast table that he had been knocked down by a taxicab
the previous evening and taken to the hospital. I visited him
there in the short interval before death came with its happy
release. Survival with its inevitable incapacitation would
have been a terrible fate. His funeral service on a Saturday
afternoon just before Christmas in the chapel of Mount Au-
burn Cemetery in Cambridge, where Edwin Booth, Charlotte
Cushman and other famous ones of their profession lie, was
well intentioned, but I know through my conversations with
him that he would have been upset by its ritualistic formali-
ties.

One of George Wilson's favorite remarks in his old age,
as he reverted to the days when he had been an actor of great
popularity in his wide local fame, was "And what has it all
amounted to!" uttered more as an exclamation than as a
question, for he was by no means a confirmed pessimist. He
was not always in a melancholy mood, although he had a
right to be, for his young wife had died early in their married
life, and a daughter who had begun with high hopes of a
promising professional career in music was attacked by melan-
cholia when young and was shielded from the outside world

Another of My Actor Friends 249

in a sanitarium in suburban Boston, where he visited her
faithfully and regularly during long years. Most of his friends
knew about this sorrow in his life, but he never mentioned
her to me, the only inkling I received of it being an occa-
sional remark: "I had a duty to perform yesterday/' She
lived to attend his funeral, but died not long afterwards.

No actor I have known was more cordial in his apprecia-
tion of his contemporaries. He never referred to Edwin
Booth, with whom he had acted, except in terms of highest
praise, almost of veneration, and he fairly idolized the mem-
ory of William Warren both as actor and as man. To him the
name of Warren was synonymous with the highest ideals of
the stage, and all the practices of the acting art. Their asso-
ciation at the Boston Museum had been long and close, and
he always looked back upon their relation as that of master
and pupil. It was an honor to him to bask in the sunshine of
the older actor's fame.

His conversation was always sprightly, and as with all actors
it was filled with reminiscences of the stage, upon which he
had been active for more than half a century. He came of a
family opposed to the theatre, and he told me that neither
his father nor his mother had ever seen him act. Among his
many stories were two about Edwin Booth. During a re-
hearsal of "Othello" when the star was acting lago and he
was the Roderigo, the question arose as to where he should
stand in a certain scene. "Never mind," said Booth, "where
you are. I can find you anywhere." There was a performance
of "Richelieu" in a Boston theatre at which a number of
Harvard students were appearing as "supers." The great
cardinal of Louis XIII was consumptive, it will be remem-
bered, and his occasional cough was an important part of the
stage business. One of the "supers" had the impertinence to
knock at Booth's dressing room door during an intermission,
and upon its opening asked him: "Mr. Booth, how do you do
that cough so realistically?" "How would you do it?" asked

250 / Speak for Myself

the actor, whereupon the student made a resounding and
raucous noise. At once Booth exclaimed, "What could be bet-
ter than that?" and shut the door without apology. In Booth's
support one season there was an actor named Bates whom for
some reason the star disliked intensely, and when the tour
ended, Booth was told by his manager that the company
would like to see him for a moment to say farewell. "I
appreciate the courtesy," was the reply, "and I am glad to
take your farewells for granted, but leave me Bates." In
addition to all this, whenever I was with George, there was
much of importance he had to say to me about plays, char-
acters and the stage in general.

One afternoon he came into my office, and said: "Theodore
Johnson of Walter H. Baker Company, the play publishers,
has a wonderful manuscript autobiography by Mildred Al-
drich that I am sure you will want to read, and that he will be
glad to lend to you. Why don't you go up to his office and
take it home for leisure reading?" As is customary with me, I
carelessly deferred the suggested trip, and then one day soon
afterwards he appeared with a huge package in his arms. It
was the Mildred Aldrich manuscript, which he was deter-
mined I should read. I took it home, kept it about a month,
reading it from beginning to end, enthralled not only by
Miss Aldrich's vivacious telling of her own story, but by its
reminiscent qualities that gave me a series of glimpses of
my own bygone days. Finally I returned it to Mr. Johnson,
who told me that he was going to try to get a publisher for
it, but that at any rate he would have it bound. The search
for a publisher was unavailing, but the manuscript is now
bound in four volumes and will some day be installed as Mr.
Johnson's gift to a receptive library. It is worth keeping
there, since it cannot be preserved in printed book form. Not
long ago Mr. Johnson took me over one floor of his two-floor
establishment in an office building on Tremont Street, and if
there is a greater number of printed plays anywhere else in

Another of My Actor Friends 251

the world I do not know where they can be. The firm of
which Mr. Johnson is the head dates back to 1845.

Who, you may ask, is Mildred Aldrich? The old-time
Bostonian, especially if he was connected with newspapers or
theatres in the last years of the nineteenth century, will re-
member her, but I fear she is unknown to the younger
generation that thinks little of the past. This story of Miss
Aldrich's life, which she entitled "The Autobiography of a
Breadwinner," is the chronicle of a woman who was born in
Providence in 1856, who lived and worked in Boston as a
school teacher, a newspaper writer and editor, and who in
search of wider fields to conquer left for Europe in 1898, set-
tled in Paris and never returned to her native land. While in
Paris she served as representative for Julia Marlowe, E. H.
Sothern, James K. Hackett and other leading American play-
ers. She wrote several little books, among them, "On the
Edge of the War Zone/' "The Peak of the Load/' "Told in a
French Garden," "When Johnny Comes Marching Home,"
and "A Hilltop on the Marne." The titles of these books
bring to my mind the ironic fact that, weary of the ceaseless
tumult of Parisian life, Miss Aldrich took a small place in the
little village of Huiry on the outskirts of the French capital,
retired there in quest of peace and quiet, and within a short
time the World War broke out, and the German army was
within sight of her door! But it got no further, and as we
know, it did not reach Paris. She received a decoration from
the French government for her services during the war and
later her home in Huiry was established as a memorial in her
honor through the efforts of Gertrude Stein and other friends.

During her early days in Boston, Miss Aldrich had been
a contributor to and editor of the Boston Home Journal, a
writer on the theatre successively in the Boston Journal and
the Boston Herald, a personal friend of many visiting players,
including Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, editor and writer
of the entire contents of a little magazine she called The

252 / Speak for Myself

Mahogany Tree, a title reminiscent of Thackeray. As I have
good reason to remember, she contributed an illustrated
monthly article about actors to a rather obscure little publica-
tion, The Nickell Magazine. I was visited by its publisher one
day in the late nineties, told by him that Miss Aldrich was
leaving Boston to make her home in France, and that she
had referred him to me to ask if I would replace her on his
staff. I consented, did the work for him for a year or so,
and added a small amount of money to my income. Then I
too deserted Boston for Europe, but I did not stay as long as
Miss Aldrich.

Although Miss Aldrich and I knew each other by reputa-
tion, we never met. But I had heard of her in a way she never
knew. In my early boyhood, I lived in a house on Sherman
Street in Roxbury, and in its other half was a family of the
name of Aldrich. Years after that, when I had grown up, my
father, who had seen her name as a signature to articles in
the Boston papers, said to me: "I wonder if this Mildred
Aldrich is the Milly Aldrich who lived in the other half of
our house on Sherman Street." I confessed my ignorance,
merely saying it was possible; but after many more years, as
I was reading her manuscript autobiography, I came across
her reference to her home on Sherman Street, in a "semi-
detached villa." And so she was the Milly Aldrich of my
boyhood some ten years older than I, however.

68

Writing Book Reviews

IF i AM ASKED to describe my method of book reviewing, I
invariably respond, somewhat paradoxically, that I have no
method, and then I proceed to describe and explain it. I am
sure there are no hard and fast rules, however, for that form
of writing. To my mind, the words "book review" merely
signify a description of the contents of a book, a statement
of what may fairly be considered to be the author's aim and
achievement, and a critical appraisal of his work. Any review
of a book may be made up of all three of these elements, or
two of them, or sometimes of only one element. A plan ob-
viously to be avoided is to give a bare outline of the plot of
a novel. There is nothing more unfair than that to the novel-
ist, and nothing more uninteresting to the reader. Whether
a book review is a piece of hack work, as it sometimes may be
called, depends wholly upon the skill of its writer.

All the phases of good writing should go into a book re-
view, as they should also be a part of the substance of any
literary form. The rhetoricians tell us that the three essen-
tials of writing are clearness, force and elegance. While some
of the rules of rhetoric seem to be superfluous, and not to be
followed with unabated rigor, this triple rule is as imperative
as were reputed to be the ancient laws of the Medes and
Persians. Each of them must be kept foremost in the mind of

*53

254 I Speak for Myself

any writer, whether he be writing for publication or a letter
to a friend or enemy. If he is not understood, for what pur-
pose is he writing? If he is obscure, he might as well not be
writing at all. He might better be engaged in some mechani-
cal labor of any kind, running a donkey engine, cleaning up
the cellar or attic, or hoeing in the garden, if the season be
willing.

The writing of a book review may be an inspiring piece of
work both for its writer and for its reader, especially if the
writer remembers he is conveying to the reader a definite
amount of information about something useful. If you have
been successful in the writing of a review, or of anything
pertaining to books and authors, you have passed on what
may be useful and usable knowledge. You may have led some-
one to look carefully into a worth-while book upon an im-
portant subject. You have thereby followed a literary high-
road and have blazed a literary bypath. You will be glad
if you have increased anyone's desire for reading and have
led anyone to see that a book may create or fulfill a passion
for broadening an acquaintanceship with its purpose and
have stimulated his progress into the heart of allied themes.

It is the theory and practice of some men who work on
daily papers with their eyes fixed on the passing show of
human events to claim that a book review is primarily and
essentially news. I contend emphatically that it is not. It may
contain an element of news, and is therefore just as effective
a month or more after it is published as on the day of publi-
cation. In fact, an old book is often more alluring and in-
formative than a new book. This thesis of books as news was
a handicap to me during my last days on the Transcript. But
whatever or whenever you write a review you should not let
the reader know so much about the book that there will be
nothing more for him to learn from its pages. Years ago there
used to be a full-page review of only one book in each sue-

Writing Book Reviews 255

cessive issue of a leading New York Sunday newspaper. That
was altogether too much.

One of the most famous of all British authors is Macaulay.
He was more than an author; and he remains more than an
author. He was a statesman and a man of public affairs who
was also a biographer, an essayist, a poet and a book reviewer.
His strongest hold upon his readers is as an adherent to the
first law of clearness. In that respect Carlyle and others pale
into insignificance. What are his essays? They are nothing
more nor less than expanded and glorified book reviews, such
as no one other than he could write. His style is clarity itself.
It is so clear that some purists condemn it because it is com-
monplace. In some of his essays those for instance on Lord
Clive and Warren Hastings, on Milton and Fanny Burney
he gives much more than can be found in the books he took
for his texts. He followed them out of his studies of their
lives and works, and he produced what is really a series of
biographical chronicles of their purposes and achievements.
He has been condemned for expressing his opinions vehe-
mently, and sometimes his prejudices emphatically, but why
not? He thereby makes himself vivacious, vividly interesting
and informative. While you are reading his essays you forget
entirely that he is writing about a book or books, and see only
the man or woman he is portraying, or the events he is de-
scribing. His is the best type of book reviewing.

Although Macaulay has doubtless proved an inspiration to
a multitude of students and professional writers, it is true that
he is not now the idol he continued to be for many years. He
has been thrown down from his pedestal by authorities and
revolutionaries of English style; or rather they have sought to
displace him. It is now the fashion to decry and sneer at him.
No one can deny the power and the ease as well as the clear-
ness of his English methods, but many are now deriding him
because he was unfortunate enough, in their eyes, not to

256 / Speak for Myself

possess the eccentricities of thought and expression that have
become the vogue since the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury. Many also are arguing that because he was a Whig his
historical and critical writings had only a temporary partisan
interest, and that their energy has departed and their atmos-
phere evaporated with the passing of the persons and activities
of his political hour. Furthermore, they are accusing him of
persistent and careless inaccuracy in many of his historical
statements and inferences, and sometimes they are right. But
what historian is wholly right? Few are they whose views of
fact are not obscured by their opinions. There always seems
to me to be an undercurrent of spite and dislike in all this
Macaulayan censure.

Since Macaulay was a partisan, it is natural that he should
be attacked by his opposing partisans. For partisanship is al-
ways a matter of give and take, with a great deal to be said on
both sides of the argument. Throughout his life, from his
university days onward, and especially from his entrance into
the political world at the age of thirty until his death at fifty-
nine, he was continuously a target of assaults from Tory
tongues and the Tory press. He began writing for the Edin-
burgh Review when he was in his twenties, and always there-
after he was the object of violent attacks, mainly for his posi-
tive expression of his opinions, especially on political subjects.
But in his personal character there was nothing that even his
most venomous enemies could seize upon.

The statesmanship, the speeches, the essays, of Macaulay,
even the great history of England, were all belittled, but
never the man himself. Gladstone, the great Liberal of
Macaulay's day and of a later era, has thus described him
by the question and answer method: "Was he envious? Never.
Was he servile? No. Was he indolent? No. Was he prodigal?
No. Was he audacious? No. Was he selfish? No. Was he idle?
The question is ridiculous. Was he false? No, but true as
steel, and transparent as crystal. Was he vain? We hold that

Writing Book Reviews 257

he was not. At every point in the ugly list he stands the trial;
and though in his history he judges mildly some sins of
appetite or passion, there is no sign in his life, or in his
remembered character, that he was compounding for what
he was inclined to." In every respect, in Gladstone's judg-
ment and in the judgment of many others, his was the best
type of mind for book reviewing. Whether we look upon
him as man or as writer, he was one whose example should
be followed even by those who have neither his ability in
writing, nor his knowledge and his skill in command of the
entire circle of knowledge.

When Authors Disclose Themselves

IT is OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE for a reviewer to have a
sense of style, both in himself and in others. He should have
a feeling for its intricacies, and an ability to make it a per-
sonal characteristic of his own writing. By style the author
reveals himself, his habit of thought, his views of life and
mankind, the aspect of the past or the future in which he is
most strongly interested. When one author resembles an-
other, we are inclined to say, somewhat rashly and somewhat
inconclusively, that he is a second Addison, a second Lamb, a
second Ruskin, a second Dickens, a second Thackeray, a sec-
ond Trollope, or a second anyone else who happens to come
to mind. Of course none of these is anything of the sort.
The statement is merely critical hyperbole. It convinces no
one, least of all him who makes it, or ourselves if we happen
to make it. We know perfectly well that the stronger a writer's
essential personality, the more definitely he is himself in
everything that goes to the making of style, and the more
impossible it is for him to have an imitator or successor.

No English writer was so thoroughly himself as Dickens,
and few have been made the victims of so many unjustifiable
comparisons. He has had many imitators, both conscious and
unconscious, but in none of them is to be found a single
spark of his genius. He might be imitated at his worst, but

258

When Authors Disclose Themselves 259

not at his best. The writer who aped him was too flagrantly
and clumsily an imitator who was trying to do the impossible.
Dickens remains, as do all writers of his rank, original and
unique. If he had chosen anonymity, for the sake of a diver-
sion after his fame had become established, he would cer-
tainly have unintentionally made himself known, and have
been none other than the Dickens he was.

Later and more modern writers than Dickens have sought
this very device of anonymity or pseudonymity, and have
failed, since it is impossible for any writer to fail to maintain
his identity. Could Kipling, or Barrie, or Shaw, or Gals-
worthy hide himself? Each was always self-revelatory. No one
doubted, for instance, from the first that the author of
"George Meek, Bath Chairman" and of "Boon" was H. G.
Wells, despite his assertion that he was merely the introducer
of those books to the public. He has always been a prolific
writer, but he saw that there was danger in being too prolific.
Why not appear in another guise? And he did it. There are
others of lesser eminence than Wells who have sought and
have not found to their complete satisfaction how sweet are
the uses of anonymity. When Arthur Christopher Benson,
one of the three writing members of the family headed by an
Archbishop of Canterbury, tried to conceal his identity as the
author of "The Upton Letters" he was found out.

Internal evidence, all the immutable elements in writing
that proclaim forcefully what we call style, revealed him as
their author. He tried it again with "Father Payne," but
again he failed and was unable to deceive his readers by the
putting forth of an anonymous title page. It required no
inordinate amount of acumen to discover that Benson was
the author of "Father Payne." I recognized him in its pages,
and so did others. I said so in a review at the time the book
was published, and he was frank enough to write me that he
was not at all surprised at my penetration into his secret. All
that was necessary for this discovery was a familiarity with one

260 I Speak for Myself

or more books of his in which he mingled reflective essays and
calm fiction, and there was the literary manner of Arthur
Christopher Benson. He tried this device more than once,
and thereby he learned the significance of the word "style"
and all that it represents. And so did we who read him.

7O

A Sea Captain Becomes a Novelist

ALL THIS ABOUT STYLE certainly leads in the direction of
Joseph Conrad. With him the style was certainly the man and
author. I wonder how many liked his novels because of that
intricate style, and how many disliked them for the same
reason. For his style I disliked him, and by that confession
I know my good taste will be questioned. Some readers and
reviewers worship the authors they like this side idolatry.
With them, Joseph Conrad seems to have been capable of
doing no wrong. Even though he be dead, he liveth in their
minds, and they spring eagerly to his defence.

When an orchestra of reviewers is playing a symphony of
harmonious sounds with the greatness of Joseph Conrad as
its theme, it may seem injudicious to destroy its concord by
the addition of one dissonant instrument. As novel after
novel by him appeared, the music grew louder and louder in
the ears of the public, and sweeter and sweeter in the ears of
the author. It may be venturesome to voice even a single
discordant note, but what is to be done when one whose
duty it is to read and write about him feels sure that he
should neither pipe the shrill piccolo nor boom the double
bass of rapt appreciation and adulation?

From his birth state of Poland, and out of his qualifica-
tions as a mariner, Joseph Conrad brought something new

261

262 I Speak for Myself

into English fiction, and into the romantic tales of the sea.
There is no doubt of that. But his relation to his fellow novel-
ists is simply one of contrasts. He devised for himself a style
of phrasing and story construction that was wholly his own,
and he neither imitated nor was imitated. In fact, I suspect
that none of his fellow novelists wanted to imitate him.

It is impossible that Conrad can be everything that has
been said of him by his admirers. The resources of the Eng-
lish language have been almost exhausted by remarks about
his greatness as revealed from "Almayer's Folly" to "The
Rover/' "Wizardry," "magic" and "power" among nouns,
and "superb," "incomparable," "magnificent," "wondrous"
and "perfect" among adjectives, are but a few of the words
wrested from the dictionary wherewith to describe him. Not
even Kipling was so highly acclaimed, and yet Conrad was a
very human writer who revealed his shortcomings and in-
consistencies as often as he revealed his skill.

To look in retrospect, for instance, at "The Rover," is to
see exactly what anyone who knows Conrad of old would ex-
pect to see. It remains a good story badly told, and that seems
to be worse than a bad story well told. It discloses again the
fact that its author, after a quarter-century of writing fiction,
had not learned the rudiments of his art. Its time-sequence is
utterly inexplicable. Its action shifts backwards and forwards,
lags and halts so frequently that the reader many times is
unable at first thought, and sometimes not at all, to discover
whether any one event comes before or after its successor in
the course of the narrative. Conrad seems to have no sense of
coherence or of the dramatic value of a logical course of
incidents. He befuddles the reader so often that we are
forced to think that he is himself in a constant bewilderment
over an entangled plot from which he is unable to extricate
himself.

It is said of some people that they cannot see the wood for
the trees. That seems to be the state of mind of the Conrad

A Sea Captain Becomes a Novelist 263

idolaters. They cannot see him as he is in the midst of all his
detail. But of course to the true Conradians, their god can do
no wrong. The primary object of a novelist is to make himself
understood, but more often than not Conrad is unintelligible.
Another of his failures is to make fiction appear as fact. This
may be found in "The Nigger of the Narcissus," where he
protracts the progress of a storm to a length of pages and
pages of narrative and description that transcend all possibili-
ties on sea or land. Before the storm subsides, the story be-
comes simply a repetition of unbelievable freaks of nature.

The fact that to many critical eyes this verdict of mine will
appear to be literary heresy of the basest kind does not cause
me to waver in my view of him. I am the more content be-
cause the furore over him is waning. Dickens and Thackeray
are as alive as they were in the days when they were writing.
But is Joseph Conrad? I doubt it. He holds a place more as
an antique than as an author who, though dead, still lives.
In the days gone by I could never read one of his novels
without the persistent feeling that the mental strain was not
worth the effort. I was compelled to force myself to read him
to the end. More than once I would lay down the book with
impatience. Perhaps now the non-Conradians are in the ranks
of the majority. If so, I am with them.

In view of what I have just said, the following letter seems
to show that he was gifted in the science of heaping coals of
fire upon one's head. In my collection of authors* letters is a
small card that looks very English with its embossed address:
"Capel House, Arlestone, Nr. Ashford, Telegrams: Conrad,
Hamstreet. Station Hamstreet, S. E. R. & C. Ry." Its writer
was apparently determined that no one who was looking for
him might go astray. The card contains a pleasant message,
and the year of its writing is 1915. It reads:

DEAR SIR:

The first intimation of Victory being published came to me
through the review in your distinguished paper. The fact could

264 / Speak for Myself

not have been conveyed to me in a more pleasant manner. Thank
you very much for the friendly thought. Pray express to my re-
viewer my very deep sense of his generous appreciation of my
work and believe me, with great regard,

Yours Faithfully,

JOSEPH CONRAD.

This is very queer, and I wish I could have access to the
review that pleased Mr. Conrad so mightily. Once in a while
I did write a favorable review of one of his novels, and per-
haps by chance this was the one time. Or possibly I was ironi-
cal in my writing of it, and he could not read between the
lines. At any rate, I am glad I pleased him, and of course I
made haste to express to my reviewer Mr. Conrad's "very
deep sense of his generous appreciation/' It was not difficult
for me to do that, for I am quite sure that I myself was the
reviewer in question.

71

Impressions of Thomas Hardy

IT is A WELCOME CHANGE to end my activities as a dissident.
I now go to Thomas Hardy, who has grown in his reputation
as a great novelist ever since that fateful day when he re-
nounced the writing of novels for poetry. To be sure, he had
dabbled in verse all the years of his novel writing, but he
was nevertheless a persistent teller of tales and a novelist. I
have always looked upon him from that point of view, and
never think now of him except as a novelist. He had been
my literary idol ever since I first read one of his novels I do
not remember which one it was and it was a sad day for me
and for many others when he announced his decision that
with "Jude the Obscure" no more fiction would come from
him. This vow was not literally carried out, but it was sub-
stantially justified.

However, Hardy could not take away from us the novels
that he had already written. There are fourteen of them, in
addition to six volumes of his short stories. By general con-
sent, six of his novels may be set down without fear of con-
tradiction as his masterpieces. In the order of their publica-
tion they are "Far from the Madding Crowd" (published in
1874), "The Return of the Native" (in 1878), "The Mayor
of Casterbridge" (in 1886), "The Woodlanders" (in 1887),
"Tess of the D'Urbervilles" (in 1891), and "Jude the Ob-

265

2 66 I Speak for Myself

scure" (in 1895). All these I have read, and also every one of
Hardy's novels and volumes of short stories, several times dur-
ing the past forty years, and I hope to find the time to read
each of them at least once more.

The last of these novels, "Jude the Obscure," which ended
his career in prose fiction, had been in his mind for about ten
years. It was written in outline several times, and was pub-
lished in abridged form serially in Harper's Magazine begin-
ning in November, 1894, with book publication the next
year. It had two prior tentative titles, "The Simpleton" and
"Hearts Insurgent." Thereupon, disappointed and disheart-
ened at the critical assaults and the personal attacks upon
himself, he gave up the struggle, and at once gained a sec-
ondary reputation as a poet. Despite the verdict of some
authorities that his poetry is superior to his prose fiction, I
continue to stand with the many who hold to their faith in
his preeminence as a novelist.

It is well known that Hardy had a definite, if not a satis-
factory, reason for abandoning his career as a novelist, when
he was less than fifty-five years of age. The pity of it is that
he was unable to withstand the attacks upon him, unwilling
to rise in his might and scorn those readers and critics who
condemned him for writing "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" and
"Jude the Obscure." It is almost impossible for us of today to
understand now, so long afterwards, what all the furious op-
position to these two novels was about. They discuss sex
problems with the most serious, the most judicious, the
sternest and the most tragic intent, and there is no doubt as
to the sincerity of their author's firm artistic purpose in their
writing, and of his desire to make them transcriptions of
actual life as he saw and studied it. He knew he was right,
and it seems strange that he succumbed to those who claimed
to be his judges. The courageous attitude for him was to go
on with his work as though no one were opposing it.

What happened forms a dramatic and tragic episode in

Impressions of Thomas Hardy 267

English literary history. It began in full cry with "Tess of the
D'Urbervilles," and it became intensified with increased fury
with "Jude the Obscure.'* It might be imagined from what
was written about both these novels and their author that he
had descended into the depths of moral depravity. "The on-
slaught upon 'Jude,' " wrote Mrs. Hardy, "started by the vitu-
perative section of the press, was taken up by anonymous
writers of libellous letters and post cards, and other such
gentry. It spread to America and Australia, whence among
other appreciations he received a letter containing a packet
of ashes, which the virtuous writer stated to be those of his
iniquitous novel/' * An American reviewer wrote: "What
has happened to Thomas Hardy? I am shocked, appalled by
the story. It is almost the worst book I ever read. I thought
that 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles' was bad enough, but that is
milk for babes compared to this. It is the handling of this
that is the horror of it. When I finished the story, I opened
the windows and let in the fresh air, and I turned to my
bookshelves and said: 'Thank God for Stevenson and Kip-
ling, Barrie and Mrs. Humphry Ward. Here are four great
writers who have never trailed their talents in the dirt."
Such puerile nonsense as this reflects not upon Thomas
Hardy, but upon its writer.

Hardy's own explanation of, not an apology for, the writ-
ing of "Jude the Obscure" is brief and to the point. "For a
novel addressed by a man to men and women of full age,"
he wrote, "which attempts to deal unaffectedly with the fret
and fever, derision and disaster, that may press in the wake
of the strongest passion known to humanity and to point,
without a mincing of words, the tragedy of unfulfilled aims,
I am not aware that there is anything in the handling to
which exception can be taken. Like former productions of
this pen, 'Jude the Obscure* is simply an endeavor to give

* From "The Later Years of Thomas Hardy," by Florence Emily Hardy. By
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers.

268 I Speak for Myself

shape and coherence to a series of seemings, or personal im-
pressions, the question of their consistency or their dis-
cordance, of their permanence or their transitoriness, being
regarded as not of the first moment. " *

Despite the general regret over his decision, Hardy never
faltered. During his thirty years thereafter he wrote noth-
ing in prose but a few short stories that were gathered into
a book under the title of "A Changed Man," its opening tale.
His novel, "The Well Beloved/' although published after
"Jude the Obscure," was written several years earlier. Once
Hardy had cast off the mantle of the novelist, he went along
sturdily and to wide approval in the garb of poet, embodying
readily all his philosophical ideas of man and life in verse.
Perhaps he was surprised to find that the critical world was
so willing to accept him in that role. His method had changed,
but he was nevertheless the same Hardy in his mental out-
look upon mankind, its present, past and future. His poetry
as it later appeared at frequent intervals represented work
that dated as far back as 1865. "The Dynasts," the drama that
is considered by some to be his greatest poem, if not literary
work, is in its way a novel, chaotic and discursive in form,
but nevertheless as much a work of historical fiction as any
of his prose novels.

* From "Jude the Obscure," by Thomas Hardy. By permission of Harper
& Brothers, publishers.

12

With Eden Phillpotts of Dartmoor

LOOKING THROUGH THE INDEX to the three bound volumes of
my radio talks About Books and Authors, I discovered that I
had said something about Eden Phillpotts's work and the
man himself thirty times, which is no more than they de-
serve. Probably I referred to no other author as often, with
the exception of Shakspeare and Dickens. This indicates
the large number of his novels that came from the press in
that period, and also my interest in an author with whom I
have been in occasional correspondence ever since the receipt
of my first letter from him about thirty years ago.

It has always seemed to me that anyone who reads with
pleasure the fiction of Thomas Hardy should read with
equal pleasure the fiction of Eden Phillpotts, although the
books of the one are few and the books of the other are
many. Of the admiration of the younger novelist their birth
dates are twenty-three years apart for the older there is no
doubt, for I have ocular evidence of that before me in the
felicitous dedication of his "Old Delabole," published in
1915: "To Thomas Hardy, in Honour of His Unapproach-
able Art and with Affection for His Most Approachable
Self." More than that, however, is contained in a letter written
to me by Mr. Phillpotts in September, 1920, from his home
in Torquay, whence he removed some years ago to another

270 / Speak for Myself

Devonshire residence in Exeter, a short distance inland from
the far-famed seashore resort on the shores of the English
Channel. After a few opening sentences it continues thus:

... In England I am only counted as a faint echo of Mr. Hardy,
and the stupid reviewers do not see the gulf between. To com-
pare small things with great is always mistaken, but my taper is
not lighted at the same source as his Sun. He believes in some
Conscious Existence overmastering all things; as a result he is
logically a pessimist; while I, as a rationalist, recognize nothing
of the sort and my philosophy, such as it is, breeds hope for man's
future and optimism and belief in evolution of morals. I wrote
"Lying Prophets" and "Children of the Mist" before ever I read
a line of Hardy and should have been exactly what I am whether
he had written or no. But one is under no illusions. I am only a
respectable and modest artist, who uses his limited gifts to the
best of his power. He is a very great genius, blessed with a mag-
nificent brain and a power of synthesis given to very few. . . .

I do hope, dear Edgett, that some day you are going to visit
England and give me an opportunity to declare my friendship
and my sense of the loyal kindness you have shown me and my
modest works. It will be a great pleasure when you do.

Always sincerely yours,

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

As an exhibit of the literary activity of Eden Phillpotts I
am able to set down from his own statement in a letter to
me the total number of his books as more than two hun-
dred. A majority of these have been published in this coun-
try as well as in England, his most frequent scenes being the
fields, forests, hills and towns of Dartmoor. In addition to
his novels he has also written books of poetry and essays,
plays, fables based on ancient Roman and Greek mythology,
and tales of mystery such as "The Grey Room" and "The
Red Redmaynes." Although these latter are in their artistic
qualities inferior to his more important novels, they are
superior in their kind to the vast modern array of popular
mystery fiction, and are worthy of standing beside the similar

With Eden Phillpotts of Dartmoor 271

work of Wilkie Collins and Conan Doyle. But I am sure I
shall be doing no injustice to him when I say that it would
have been better for his reputation had he not been so pro-
lific in his literary energies.

This letter from him touches upon that point:

KERSWELL, BROADCLYST
EXETER, ENGLAND

14 June, 1937
My dear Friend

An unknown American reader has Kent me the press
cutting of a speech or radio talk delivered by you in January last
on my little volume of Sonnets and I am greatly touched by the
extraordinary kindness you continue to show me. No publisher
will print my poetry in U.S.A. and so my "100 Sonnets" and "100
Lyrics" have not seen the light there and indeed any of my longer
poems.

One error you make: I have written two hundred works noth-
ing to boast about you'll say, but so it is. The spirit continues to
be willing and I have many more stories to tell than I shall have
time to write. But in sight of seventy-five years the physical power
and the brain concentration needful in creative work begin to
play tricks with you.

You will like my last quiet little book of the folk entitled
"Wood Nymph," but it is not noisy enough for these times.

I hope you are strong and well yourself and destined to pursue
your adventures in letters for many long years.

Always gratefully yours

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Of the truth of the Phillpotts novels to the life and scene
they depict, there is no doubt. By reading them we learn
much that we never should have known about southwestern
England; and we have marvelled at the skill with which fic-
tion is combined with fact. They characterize the life with
which they deal, and they portray also the world at large.
Because of these novels I have never wanted to see a foreign
land as I want to see Dartmoor, with the possibility of

272 / Speak for Myself

Pitcairn Island as an exception to this desire. But neither
journey can I hope to take. Here is Mr. Phillpotts's analysis
of his artistic reaction to his scene:

TORQUAY, ENGLAND

24 April, 1923
MY DEAR EDGETT,

Thanks to you I get from time to time a glimpse of
the critical attitude in America, which is always interesting; but
to a serious artist, who never satisfies himself, the fact that he
may please or displease others is equally unimportant. The New
York Times critic errs at one question and states, as though it
were a fact, something that is not true.

I do not invent my characters in my studyfirst because that
would be as impossible to me as describing Dartmoor from my
study, and secondly because that would in my judgment be ab-
surdly dishonest. It may very well be that I create this impression
through faulty art and inefficient handling; but I go for my char-
acters where they belong, and that's Dartmoor. Had the critic
known amply of me personally, or my methods of work, he might
still have said what he says; but not in those untruthful terms. He
has every right to say I fail of presentation and I agree with him;
but the people are observed and studied, not invented, and were
my powers of observation keener and my art finer, this would
doubtless be more apparent than it is. For the rest I expect he's
a keen Christian, and religious predilections do vitiate so much
criticism unfortunately.

Once again I thank you for your great and much valued kind-
ness to me. I delight to hear from you and much hope some day
you may make the journey to England and give me the keen
pleasure of your personal acquaintance. I have still a kick left
and a dozen books asking to be written, but "the night cometh"
and vitality wanes.

Your friend,

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Many of Eden Phillpotts's novels reveal him in the simple
and unpretentious garb of a writer of books who seeks to be
nothing more than a "teller of tales" a designation, it will
be remembered, of which Stevenson was especially proud.

With Eden Phillpotts of Dartmoor 273

In novel after novel he sets his scene, introduces his char-
acters, weaves his plot and entertains us with a logical and
coherent story. He invites us to solve no problems, he solves
no problems for us. There is abundant drama in his stories,
but it is simple and unforced drama; there is comedy in
them, but it is a quiet and unexaggerated comedy. We are
left in no doubt as to the inmost feelings and emotions of his
personages.

He prefers to write in the mood and manner of the story-
tellers of the days gone by when no one thought of praising
a novelist because he wrote as one inspired with a divine
mission to reform a portion of mankind, or at least to in-
struct the world by means of his fiction. He plunges us
deeply into the ways of men and women and into the vagaries
of the human heart. He shows us the wisdom with which
the able novelist may look upon life as it is disclosed to him
in the scene that lies before his eyes. For him that life has
been the life of Dartmoor; any other life might have been
the same to him, if it had been the place where he made his
home for many years. He is a novelist who writes with his
eyes firmly fixed on what confronts him.

73

Gissing the Romantic Realist

ANOTHER OF MY FAVORITE NOVELISTS is George Gissing, realist
and romanticist who endured for a long time a life of great
hardship. Before he was well along towards his middle years
he had descended into the valley of the shadow of death. His
own story is as romantic and as realistic as any novel he
wrote, and he was the author of many novels. He was born
in 1857, and it is difficult to realize that he would now be
only eighty-three, an age to which many poets and prose
writers have survived. He is the product of another era than
this in the history of literature. Through his youth and early
manhood he trod the weary pathways of moral trials and
physical tribulations; but he eventually emerged from them
victorious.

In his early days, when he was struggling in the midst of
despair, Gissing received practical aid and encouragement
from Frederic Harrison as tutor to the famous philosopher's
sons. Harrison was attracted to him by the reading of his
earliest novel, "Workers in the Dawn/' and wrote him that
it had kept him out of bed the greater part of a night,
prophesying great triumphs for him in the field of literature.
Of Gissing's methods of writing we know little. He says
much in his letters about the work of others, but little about
his own. His readings and studies were extensive, and his

274

Gissing the Romantic Realist 275

devotion to the art of letters was intense. He was happy in
his knowledge of Greek, Latin, German and French authors
in the original. He took great joy in Shakspeare. As soon as
his finances made it possible, he travelled widely on the Con-
tinent, and his venturesome hegira to the United States
when he was almost without funds is a remarkable episode
in his life.

By rare good fortune, I knew a man who had known Gis-
sing while he was in the vicinity of Boston. This man was a
compositor on the Transcript, and having read something I
had written about the Englishman, he said to me, "I met
Gissing years ago," whereupon I asked, "When and how was
that?" His answer was: "We were teacher and pupil together
in the Waltham High School, but he was there only a short
time, and our contacts were very casual." But there they
were, and my friend had remembered him all the years.
That episode in Gissing's life was in the winter of 1876-
1877, when he was only twenty, and his recollections of that
trip may be read in a published volume of his letters as well
as in his novel, "New Grub Street." Two of the letters are
dated from Boston and one from Waltham. From the mo-
ment of his arrival in this country he seems to have adapted
himself to the changed conditions of life over here. Every-
thing he saw appealed to his curiosity, and he writes of the
Americans almost as though he were himself an American.

As related in "New Grub Street" the incidents of Whelp-
dale's experiences in Chicago are essentially an autobio-
graphical account of Gissing's adventures there. Gissing
arrived with not quite $5 in his pocket, and he paid immedi-
ately all but fifty cents of it for board and lodging in a dirty
little house on Wabash Avenue. Applying to the editor of a
daily newspaper, he was told that there was always a market
for short stories. Amid the discomforts of his habitation, he
wrote a story, took it to the editor, and was saved from star-
vation by the receipt of $18. For some months he supported

276 / Speak for Myself

himself by writing for the papers; but after he left Chicago
he encountered many setbacks and was always poverty-
stricken. At last, however, money was sent to him from Eng-
land, and he went home never to return to this country.

Few modern writers have suffered as much from post-
mortem revelations as has Gissing. Following close upon the
publication of that classic survey of the comforts of a quiet
life, "The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft," in which there
is little about the early Gissing, over-candid associates and
friends thought it necessary to draw aside the veil from cer-
tain phases of his boyhood and youth at school and in Lon-
don. Perhaps the most conspicuous of these is "The Private
Life of Henry Maitland," where in the guise of a novel
Morley Roberts, who knew him when they were at school
together in Manchester, relates with imaginative additions
the story of Gissing's life almost from the cradle to the grave.
Perhaps this is justifiable from the point of view that if any-
thing is written about him the truth should be told. In any
event it is a tribute to him that he is thought to be worth so
much attention. Like Samuel Butler's reputation, Gissing's
has grown mightily since his death, although it is lamentable
that so few of his books are easily obtainable.

How different from Gissing's other books is "The Private
Papers of Henry Ryecroft"! It contains the reflections and
impressions of a literary man a man much as Gissing him-
self was during the brief period of his comfortable retire-
ment in the country after the end of his financial stringency.
It is both Gissing and not Gissing. Henry Ryecroft, like Gis-
sing, had done a large amount of hack work. He reviewed,
he wrote miscellaneous articles, and at intervals a book ap-
peared under his name. Year after year passed, and he was
still a disappointed poor man, until at the age of fifty he re-
ceived a wholly unexpected legacy. Gissing himself died at
the age of less than fifty, but amid no such delightful sur-
roundings as Henry Ryecroft; for he died in a hamlet far up

Gissing the Romantic Realist 277

on the heights of the Pyrenees on the borders of Spain and
France. "The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft" is notable
both for itself and by reason of its strong contrast with Gis-
sing's other books. It is pervaded with an optimism they do
not possess. There are books by other English authors com-
parable with it, notably Richard Jefferies's account of the
quiet life, "The Story of My Heart."

Other posthumously published books by Gissing are two
collections of short stories, "The House of Cobwebs" and "A
Victim of Circumstances," both containing tales revealing
his adaptability to that form of fiction, and "Veranilda," a
long story of ancient Rome a subject wholly alien to his
usual fieldin which he took pride as a student of its period.
I think his reputation will survive mainly always with the
exception of his Henry Ryecroft book through his novels
that were the product of his early unhappy life in London.
These novels are "New Grub Street," "Thyrza," "Demos,"
"The Unclassed," "The Whirlpool," and "The Nether
World." He is distinctively the novelist of the struggling
English lower, middle and professional classes, and none has
painted more accurate portraits of their denizens.

Vagaries of My Taste in Fiction

I MIGHT CONTINUE INDEFINITELY these appraisals of authors
as I have met them in their pages, but that would be to turn
my own pages from the autobiography they claim to be into
a series of critical and descriptive essays on the literary
world of which I have long been a resident. Therefore I
must conclude these outlines with a mere glimpse of the au-
thors of fiction who have satisfied me with their art. Anthony
Trollope is one of these, and although by no means have I
read everything of his, I never lay down one of his novels
without wanting immediately to read another. But some-
thing always intervenes, and I am holding in prospect "The
Small House at Allington," and "The Way We Live Now,"
"The Eustace Diamonds" and "Can You Forgive Her?" to
select a quartet at random. And whenever I think of Trollope
I always think also of that marvellous mother of his, herself
a prolific novelist, and of the keen judgment upon him ut-
tered by Michael Sadleir: "He stuck to his tale and let the
teaching go, with the result that all his novels are lessons in
the art of life and yet not one of them a preachment."

Another novelist I read for pure enjoyment in story-telling
is Wilkie Collins. He is very uneven both in skill and in in-
terest, with some of his many novels almost unreadable, but
I never lack enthusiasm for such marvellous mysteries as

278

Vagaries of My Taste in Fiction 279

"The Woman in White/' ''The Moonstone/' "Man and
Wife," "Armadale," and "The Dead Secret/' in spite of his
world being so very unreal. I am a Sherlock Holmes en-
thusiast, and I am also an admirer of the fiction of Dr. R.
Austin Freeman, which is both like and unlike Conan
Doyle's. To go back into the annals of English fiction,
Charles Reade's "Griffith Gaunt" and "The Cloister and the
Hearth" allure me, each in its differing way, and I am not
afraid of having my critical judgment censured when I say
that a few of Harrison Ainsworth's novels "Jack Sheppard,"
and "Rookwood," for instance have satisfied my craving for
the ultraromantic. Of G. P. R. James and G. W. M. Reynolds
I know nothing, and am unregretful of my ignorance.

I feel quite sure that I am in the good company of many
when I say that I prefer the George Eliot of "Scenes of Cler-
ical Life" and "Adam Bede" to the George Eliot of "Middle-
march" and her later novels. I fail to understand how any-
one can resist the appeal of "Robinson Crusoe," and by that
I do not mean to imply that I do not care for "Swiss Family
Robinson," Jules Verne's "The Mysterious Island," "Foul
Play," and all the other novels that take us into the far-off
corners of the seven seas. Islands always beckon me in imag-
ination at least. Amid all these helter-skelter literary remi-
niscences, I acknowledge that my tastes, like everybody's,
have their vagaries. I have no fancy for the supernatural in
fiction, or for stories that deal with happenings in the future.
That highly praised short story by Henry James, "The Turn
of the Screw," reaches my mind as an arrant piece of non-
sense. Give me instead the blatant mysteries of Miss Brad-
don's "Lady Audley's Secret" and "Aurora Floyd," or Mrs.
Henry Wood's "East Lynne." They deserve their long life.

Speaking of Miss Braddon, which was the pen name of a
London publisher's wife, reminds me that her son is W. B.
Maxwell, the English novelist who followed in her foot-
steps with a type of novel far different from hers. His "Mrs.

280 / Speak for Myself

Thompson/' "Spinster of This Parish/' and "In Cotton
Wool/' are among the most distinguished English twentieth
century novels.

The super-exaltation of Herman Melville's novels sounds
no responsive chord within me, and this despite the fact that
I have an intense fondness for their scene, whether I read
about it in fiction or in books of travel. I have ranged its
waters in my reading from the Solomon Islands to the small
and lonely Easter Island off the coast of South America, and
am always looking for more books about them. For an ear-
lier chronicler of sea adventures, Captain Marryat, I have
only a moderate liking, not caring for his fantastic humor.
In my boyhood I read all the popular authors of juvenile
fiction, including the English R. M. Ballantyne, W. H. G.
Kingston and Captain Mayne Reid, but G. A. Henty came
after I was out of my teens.

For my infrequent references to poetry and poets, I must
ask forgiveness, even though what I might say about them
would be of little importance beside the verdicts of some
eminent critics. I have no lack of interest in them, but their
influence has been cast into the inmost recesses of my mind as
my pencil, pen and typewriter have done the mechanical
labor in this discursive chronicle of my wandering mental
life. Art is so long and time is so fleeting that many literary
names important, at least to myself, must be omitted from
this record. But no, there is one name that must not be
omitted, and that name is Robert Louis Stevenson.

75

A Message from Arnold Bennett

IT WAS FORTUNATE FOR ME that I personally reviewed Arnold
Bennett's distinguished novel "The Old Wives' Tale" at
the very moment of its publication over thirty years ago.
What I wrote about it brought to me one of the best au-
thors' letters I have ever received, best in every sense of the
word. It was gracious and kindly, and it gave me to under-
stand that there was an author who did not pose as never
reading anything a reviewer wrote about his books. Its per-
sonal point of view is its most significant quality, and it
proves that he was not hesitant to take issue with one of his
readers. It reveals the temperament of the remarkable man
and the industrious author whose name circled the world
during his long career. It is as good-natured toward me as I
was censorious of him, and it is dated from his residence in
France. He had written much before "The Old Wives' Tale,"
and he wrote a great deal more afterwards; but nothing I
read of his gave me so much pleasure as this:

VILLA DES NEFLIERS
AVON-FONTAINEBLEAU

and Sept. 1909
MY DEAR SIR

I am much obliged for your article on "The Old Wives' Tale"
which you have been good enough to send me. It has given me

281

282 / Speak for Myself

great pleasure. You must also be a very courageous man, for you
are no doubt aware that nothing infuriates an author more than
to be told that his latest book is his "first to be seriously reckoned
with." However this only proves, for me, that you have not read
some of my books (which after all is not a crime). Nobody who
thought what you think about "The Old Wives' Tale" could
possibly consider "Whom God Hath Joined" as a book not to be
reckoned with. As a literary critic of long experience I am pre-
pared to assert that of the 30 books I have published at least four
are inferior to "The Old Wives' Tale" in nothing except length.
They are perhaps all bad but they are certainly not worse.

After this brief excursus on your courage, may I say that an
author could not expect a more thoughtful, perspicacious and
dignified laudation than this which you have lavished upon me.
Such things are very rare.

Believe me,

Yours Sincerely,

ARNOLD BENNETT

All this, with its combination of humor and good humor,
was characteristic of Arnold Bennett. I had read very little of
his before "The Old Wives' Tale," although he was then
far from his beginnings in fiction. Therefore he was fully
justified in reprimanding me for my remark that that novel
was his "first to be seriously reckoned with." Since then I have
read many of his novels up to his very last, "Imperial Palace/'
published in 1930, the year before his death. I read them in
alternating moods of approval and disapproval, as have prob-
ably many others who followed diligently the course of his
fiction.

He was the most industrious of novelists and writers of
varied forms of prose. I have read his journals, those remark-
able documents in three large volumes which cause wonder-
ment over how he could have time to write them in the
midst of his other work. We might think that often he would
write the clock around more than one day a week. They give
an extremely detailed and practically continuous record show-
ing that he knew "how to live on twenty-four hours a day/'

A Message from Arnold Bennett 283

to quote the title of one of his little books. I have a clipping
of my review to which he refers in his letter, I have recently
re-read every word of it, and I know that he is absolutely
right in his judgment of my self-assurance. And that review
was of inordinate length, too, for it runs to the extent of two
of the Transcript long columns, no less than thirty-six hun-
dred words I

76

Letters from Mrs. Belloc Lowndes

MY CORRESPONDENCE WITH Mrs. Belloc Lowndes began in
1910, and its continuance to this day is a series of persistent
high lights of my life on and after the Transcript. My regret
is that other authors have not been such faithful letter-writers
to me. She wrote me first a letter dated only May 23rd, but
since the book she mentions in her first sentence was pub-
lished in 1910, the year is self-evident. Here is the letter,
which is addressed to "E. F. E., Reviewer, by courtesy of the
editor."

9 BARTON ST.
WESTMINSTER, S.W.
DEAR SIR

I feel I must write and tell you what great pleasure your sym-
pathetic and discriminating review of "Studies in Wives" gave
me, the writer of the book.

It is my painful fate to be mostly misunderstood by the
American reviewers. That is, my books, especially "The Utter-
most Farthing" and "Studies in Wives," are taken as being "mor-
bid," "unfit for general reading," and so on. It was the more de-
lightful for me to read your notice, for I have got to dread, rather,
the look of an American press cutting.

I hope when you write a book or your next book that you
will have the good fortune to meet with many reviewers as "un-
derstanding" as you have proved to the works of

Yours very sincerely,

MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES.
284

Letters from Mrs. Belloc Lowndes 285

Among the other notices I received with yours was one conclud-
ing with the words "Readers may be warned of the unwholesome-
ness of this group of repellent tales."

I pass through the years with Mrs. Lowndes until I come
to the following letter, which is especially pertinent because
of its references to two of her earlier novels, in addition to
"The Lodger":

9 BARTON STREET,
WESTMINSTER, S.W.
27th August, 1931
MY DEAR MR. EDGETT,

I know you will forgive me for not having acknowledged your
most kind reprint from the Book Section of the Transcript when
I tell you that I have been far from well. I am better now, and I
want to tell you how deeply grateful I am to you for your gen-
erous words about The Lodger. It has naturally gratified me very
much that Messrs. Harrison Smith should have republished this
book of mine. It was, I think you are aware, written long before
the great spate of mystery stories.

I don't know if you ever read a book of mine which has run
The Lodger very close in popularity, though it is quite unlike
The Lodger. The Chink in the Armour is its name, and my next
novel to be published in America some time in October is nearer
to The Chink in the Armour than any book I have ever written.
In other words, it is a romance, and, like a little novel dear to
my heart, long out of print, The Uttermost Farthing, has an
American young man as its hero. When I was a girl one of my
American cousins spent some time in Europe. He was the first
American man I had ever really known, and he was so delight-
fully kind to me that, though I have never consciously taken a
real person and put him or her in a book, he unconsciously
created in my mind an ideal which has governed every portrait I
have ever drawn of a man belonging to your country.

I hope you will allow me to say again what I think I said in
a former letter that is, that next time you come to Europe I trust
you will give me good warning, so that I may have the pleasure

286 I Speak for Myself

of seeing you and of asking you to meet some of my fellow
writers.

With kind and grateful thoughts, believe me to remain
Very sincerely yours,

MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES

I had read both "The Chink in the Armour" and "The
Uttermost Farthing," and I have read them since more than
once, with appreciation both of their merits as fiction and
for the marvellous mystery in each. I am glad to say that I
have in my possession a leather-bound copy of the latter with
this inscription on the flyleaf: "Edwin Francis Edgett with
the kind thoughts of the writer, Marie Belloc Lowndes." Its
clever title, "The Uttermost Farthing," apparently has had
an attraction for two novelists, at least, for there is a novel
so named written by Dr. R. Austin Freeman, another expert
English story-teller. Mrs. Lowndes's, however, was published
first, and there is no resemblance between the two aside from
the title.

No chance to give Mrs. Lowndes "good warning" of my
arrival in London has yet arisen, and to my regret I doubt
if it ever will come. My farewell to London in 1900 was
a long farewell. I had the opportunity to meet her in Boston
several years ago, but unhappily failed in that. Neverthe-
less, although the ocean is broad and mails are uncertain
in these times, I feel sure that a letter now and then will
pass from one shore to the other addressed to her and ad-
dressed to me. That is my sincere hope.

77

From the Author of "If Winter
Comes 93

"HAIL ACROSS THE YEARS." These are the words at the begin-
ning of a letter from Mr. Hutchinson in which, in response
to my request, he gave me permission to print two letters he
had written me long ago. It is indeed a long journey in time
across those years from 1910 and 1913 to 1940. "It's a far cry
back," he continued, "to when I last wrote you, but vividly
your letter recalls to me the sight of your name printed at
the head of the too generous appreciation you gave my work.
By all means use in your autobiography anything of mine
you care to. I shall read with greatest interest the record of
one whose esteem I have greatly cherished."

This is his first letter, which came to me entirely unex-
pectedly soon after the date at its beginning:

53 CROFTDOWN ROAD,
HIGHGATE ROAD,
LONDON, N.W.
August ist, 1910
DEAR SIR,

I wonder if you would do me the great kindness of sending me
a copy of the Boston Transcript containing a review of my novel,
"Once Aboard the Lugger"? I have just heard that you did me

*8 7

288 I Speak for Myself

the privilege of noticing the book; and I would very much like
to know what a paper of the Transcript's standing had to say of
it.

Writing as a fellow journalist of the Daily Graphic I am fur-
ther going to ask you to excuse my sending price of the paper and
postagel I didn't quite know where to get U.S.A. stamps. But I am
afraid I am taking a liberty, one way or another.

Yours truly,

A. S. M. HUTCHINSON

The second letter I received from Mr. Hutchinson was also
unexpected. When the first was written, Mr. Hutchinson had
his reputation to establish; the letter that follows found it
established. Some years later with "If Winter Comes" his
popularity reached high-water mark, but unfortunately I had
heard nothing from him by mail until his letter of 1940 came
not long ago.

53 CROFTDOWN ROAD
HIGHGATE ROAD,
LONDON, N.W.
Feb. 6th, 1913
DEAR MR. EDGETT,

Your generous treatment of both my books is my excuse for
writing to you. I feel that I must try to tell you with what tin-
gling satisfaction I read your review of "The Happy Warrior" in
the Transcript; and if I fail as fail I shall to convey to you the
full degree of that satisfaction, then at least I must write to say
Thank You. Two years ago you wrote a review of "Once Aboard
the Lugger" which made me say "Here is a man who really un-
derstands." I was staying by the sea at the time and I took the
review down to the lonely shore and revelled in it. I would have
written to you then, but already I was deep in the throes of "The
Happy Warrior," and bound up in the determination to cut out
all that belonged to the past until I had wrestled to the end of
this that belonged to the future. "The Happy Warrior" I feel I
can tell you was written under desperately difficult conditions
and I was not often feeling like going on with it. So all that is
how you were mercifully spared a letter from me before this!
But you can escape no longer! When I read your generous

From the Author of "If Winter Comes" 289

praise of "The Happy Warrior" I know that I am reading some-
thing miles away from the critical estimation of the ordinary re-
viewer. Whether the terms in which you wrote of my book were
good or bad I should still eagerly look out for them. It is such
a real satisfaction to meet one who has got right into your book
who has met one's little men and women and has understood
their faults and their virtues.

I rather wish I had not written to you after all! On the one
hand I feel in danger of giving you an idea that I am egotistical
and affected about my stuff, and on the other I simply cannot
express to you quite what your reviews have meant to me. It
comes to this that I can feel you have just been reading my
book; and that you look up from its pages and that you extend
your hand; that I take it; and that nothing is said or needs be
said. That is how I feel.

Yours very sincerely,

A. S. M. HUTCHINSON

After having resigned his editorial position on the staff of
the Daily Graphic and his profession as an active journalist,
Mr. Hutchinson went on writing novels, among their high
lights being "The Clean Heart/' "If Winter Comes/' "This
Freedom" and "One Increasing Purpose." Apropos, this let-
ter written by Professor Phelps from his summer home in
Michigan, seems especially pertinent:

8 September, 1921
DEAR EDGETT

I'm very glad we agree (as we so often do) on "If Winter
Comes." What a fine novel it isl I look to him [Hutchinson] as a
coming force and a bringer of happiness.

Ever Yours,

WILLIAM LYON PHELPS.

If the leisure hours ever come to me, I hope some day tofind
the time to re-read at least two of his novels,
"If Winter Comes" and "Once Aboard the L

78

A Rose and a Thorn

THE BEGINNING OF the following letter gives me the oppor-
tunity to say that I never made it my habit to forward to the
authors of books I reviewed clippings of what I had written.
This, it will be noted, is a spontaneous appreciation from
Mr. Raymond, and not an acknowledgment of something re-
ceived. It was therefore all the more welcome. Once in a
while, I did send a review to an author, but my purpose then
was to mention some special point of praise or blame.

Mr. Raymond's letter, written in the fall of 1925 from his
home in Sussex, reads:

DEAR SIR:

My press-clipping agency has sent me more than one very kind
review (presumably broadcast) by you of my novel, "We the Ac-
cused," and I feel moved to say "thank you" for such splendid
service. It is extraordinarily pleasant to think of an unknown
friend "over there" laboring so doughtily in one's interest. For
some reason I have never induced more than a thousand or so of
American readers to buy my novels; and if "We the Accused"
goes rather better, I feel sure it will be you, very largely, that I
shall have to thank.

And, anyway, thank you so much for all that you have already
done for it.

Yours very sincerely,

ERNEST RAYMOND.

A Rose and a Thorn 291

In any event, there were doubtless more American readers
of "We the Accused" than Mr. Raymond reckoned. There
are always the borrowers of public library books and the sub-
scribers to lending libraries whose interest in any book is not
disclosed in the sales figures. For every book they purchase
there may be a dozen or more readers.

"We the Accused" is certainly a remarkable novel, and de-
serves a long life. I tried to do my best for it, when I wrote
in my review: "It is the product of a mind that holds and
unites the world of reality with the scope of the imagination
of a novelist who understands the alliance of life with liter-
ature. It is a novel that has for its substance the interwoven
warp and woof of our fallible human natures. In its pages a
man and a woman are led astray, not so much by their pas-
sions, as in many novels, but by the fateful sway of their
emotions. They sin and they suffer, they endure more than it
seems possible for the sensitive spirit to endure, and after
continuous trials and attempts to escape paying the penalty
of their wrong-doing, they discover that the way of the trans-
gressor is hard and that the wages of sin is death." This was
my verdict five years ago, expressed again in varying words in
my radio broadcast and on the printed page, and it is still
my verdict. If I wrote about the novel again, I should write
about it even more strongly.

Lest I be condemned for egotism in the reproduction of
this and other complimentary letters, perhaps I may make
amends by giving another side of the picture. The bitter and
the sweet both came to me, although I make no boast when
I say that the one was not so usual as the other. The follow-
ing letter has to do with my work not as a writer, but as an
editor. It came to me written by hand on the stationery of
the University of Wisconsin, and I have the permission of its
writer, who was then and is now Professor of English there,
to present it. It is dated February 2, 1926:

I Speak for Myself

GENTLEMEN:

The author of course must stand for a good deal of foolishness-
smile and say nothing. Certainly, for one, that is my attitude.
But in all my experience, I never met quite such well-meaning
inanity as that in the Transcript of Jan. 9 on "Two Lives." The
poor childsome Boston University sophomore? did her best
(and I feel friendly to her effort); the blame rests on the slapstick
policy of the Transcript, especially with any book of verse. Do
you purpose to take American art seriously, or do you not? The
amateurishness of the thing couldn't be matched outside a high
school periodical or some other book review of the Transcript.
The office used to turn over contemporary literature for my defini-
tive settlement when I too was twenty (and a sophomore at B. U.)
and my authors were fifty. So I suppose there is ironic justice in
this. Still I can hardly dare suspect my own juvenescence of quite
such infantile piffle in idea and expression. No wonder the Tran-
script has lost out. You will be missing your guess if you interpret
this comment as an outburst of the genus irritabile vatum. I am
your old contributor,

W. E. LEONARD.

Well, and that's that. I must have enjoyed reading it when
it came in my daily mail. There seems to have been no limit
to its writer's disgust: the Transcript primarily, amateur re-
viewers, sophomores, Boston University, women writers (he
assumes that his reviewer was a woman), high-school peri-
odicals, even himself at the age of twenty, and the editor
(myself) at an age not specified. The review filled less than
half a column, and in the course of it we are told that "the
work demands a great deal of praise, and certainly is a highly
commendable attempt/' Rather flat, I acknowledge, but I
will take all the blame for it, although I am not going to
offer any apologies.

7Q

How Books Come in for Review

MY READERS MAY WONDER how all the books I have mentioned
coming to me for review in the Transcript, or any other pa-
per, arrive. Do we buy them from the publishers, do we order
them from the booksellers, or are they sent us at the request
of their authors? No, the system is simpler than that. In the
first place, every publishing house of any size or standing has
what is known as a publicity department in charge of an ex-
pert with several assistants. From it are sent out at frequent
intervals information about its activities, its seasonal cata-
logues, announcements of forthcoming books, items of per-
sonal interest about and interviews with their authors, and
all sorts of news thought to be of interest to newspaper read-
ers. All this comes without charge, for it is a reciprocal service
to the advantage of both publishers and newspapers. The
placing of advertisements is also an important adjunct of the
general system of publicity. As I have discovered since my
retirement two years ago, this publicity material, much of
which still reaches me at my home through the kindness of
the publishers, enables anyone to keep abreast of the literary
times.

More important than all this, however, is the actual send-
ing and arrival of the books for review. They come on or
about the day of their publication, and sometimes a week or

294 J Speak for Myself

more in advance of the day when they will be found on sale
in the bookstores, with a request not to print the review be-
fore then. The publishers want the reviews in the papers,
and the papers want them for the benefit of their readers. I
must add that the books are sent without prejudice; that in
other words we give and their publishers want a fair and just
appraisal.

To do otherwise would be to bring the art and practice of
book reviewing into disrepute. The publishers want readers
to know that the books are available. They do not want them
to be ignored, although sometimes with their daily influx
into the newspaper offices, some worth-while books received
nothing more than the formal acknowledgment in the list of
new books that used to be printed every Saturday in the
Transcript. The publishers understood this perfectly and
made no complaint. If they ever wrote us about an expected
review, it was merely to call our attention to what might be
an oversight, And if we felt sure that an important book
had failed to reach us through an oversight, we did not hesi-
tate to remind them of it.

Outsiders who happen to enter a literary editor's room at
the height of the book publishing season are naturally sur-
prised, and perhaps astonished, when they see the packages
of books arriving, or piled up on the tables. They have come
by mail or express in large bundles, as single books, by twos
or threes, or by dozens or more. In and out of their brown-
paper wrappings they are an impressive sight, and I have
known visitors, so unaccustomed are they to seeing so many
books in an office, to be under the delusion that we were run-
ning a bookstore. The sight may arouse envy in some minds,
although they are the mere commonplaces of our daily work.
"And they cost you nothing?" we sometimes heard "No, in-
deed. Why should they?" is the common reply, without fur-
ther explanation.

At any rate, there they are. Later, the packages are opened,

How Books Come in for Review 295

the receipt of the books is recorded, or it was once upon a
time, and they become immediately the problem of the liter-
ary editor for distribution and review. It is all interesting
work, to be sure, but it is merely one important phase of the
day-by-day activities of a literary editor's room. For many
years an annotated list of the books received during the pre-
ceding week was printed in the Book Section of the Saturday
issue of the Transcript. At one time my columns were so
crowded that I omitted the lines of annotation to conserve
my space. But so many complaints came in that I restored
them after a few weeks' interval, for it was a system I had
instituted myself soon after I became literary editor. The
whole list was one of the most important features of my
pages, but unfortunately it was discontinued immediately
after my departure. It was absolutely essential to a compact
and adequate chronicle of the passing show of books.

A recapitulation of the number of books that came to the
Transcript for review during my regime as literary editor in-
terests me, and it may also appeal to others. Fortunately, I
have in my possession a tabular record from 1903 to 1937.
The total mounted from 2390 in 1903 to 5185 in 1930, its
highest point. For four successive years, 1927 to 1930, the
number slightly exceeded five thousand annually, and then
it began to decrease steadily as the fortunes of the country
declined because of the depression. Through the thirties, it
continued close to four thousand, the total number received
in 1937, the last year of my record, being 4115. I have no
resources of information since this last mentioned year, but
the books for review sent to the Transcript certainly have
not again reached an annual four thousand mark.

8O

Vacations at Monadnock

WE ON THE TRANSCRIPT had our annual summer vacations.
For a long time we had been given the traditional two weeks,
but when at last one of us he happened to be my friend
Charles E. Alexander, the society editor now retired, who was
especially gifted with the ability to do that sort of thing-
went to Mr. Mandell with the suggestion that the older mem-
bers of the staff should have a summer rest of three weeks,
he was met with these words: "Why not? I'll give you all
three weeks after this." That, as I have said before, was char-
acteristic of George Mandell. The time was to come, how-
ever, with the melancholy days. Our leader and friend was
dead, the Transcript needed every cent it could save, and we
did not have vacations of even two weeks. We did not com-
plain, but at last the old-time vacations returned.

The mechanical employees, however, took vacations at
their own expense. Lest anyone may think this unjust, let me
explain. They worked on a time schedule, about seven and a
half hours a day, and they were paid a high rate of hourly
wages for overtime, of which there was an abundance. They
were union members, with all that is implied in those words,
which included "collective bargaining" and other concessions
to "labor," as they were described, although they worked no
harder and labored for a shorter time than we editors, re-

296

Vacations at Monadnock 297

porters and business office clerks. In recent days there has
arisen a "writers' union," and when I was asked to join it my
answer was more emphatic than polite. I would not be a
member of a labor union under any circumstances whatever,
and I am glad now not to be a member of a profession in
which one is tolerated.

The Transcript management was in many ways always very
good to all of us. For years everybody on the entire staff, over
four hundred persons, received a nine-pound turkey at Thanks-
giving, and anyone who wanted more than that weight would
merely pay the difference. There were many other favors
given us. If we were compelled to stay away from the office
on account of illness, we found no decrease in the contents of
our pay envelopes when the end of the week or weeks came.
And there were many pensioners among the elderly and in-
capacitated on the rolls. No employees could ask for better
treatment. Discharges for any reason were practically un-
known. We took pride in describing ourselves as members
of the Transcript family, and almost all of us said that we
would rather work on the Transcript than on any other
newspaper.

On our wedding tour, my wife and I made the acquaint-
ance of Mount Monadnock, not merely the region in south-
western New Hampshire dominated by that peak, but the
mountain itself. We arrived there in the moonlight of the
evening of September 15, 1896, and we then spent ten happy
days at the old hotel, which is still standing, on the westerly
slope of the mountain, about halfway up to the summit from
the valley below. The season was almost ended, and there
were few guests. Mount Monadnock is an isolated peak, about
three thousand feet above the sea level, surrounded by lesser
mountains, and not forming one of a continuous range like
the famous White Mountains of northerly New Hampshire.
For several subsequent summers we went elsewhere, to Jef-
ferson, to the Hoosac Tunnel district in western Massachu-

298 I Speak for Myself

setts, and even to so short a distance from Boston as its sub-
urb of Braintree. But when 1904 came we began a series of
visits that took us to the same old Monadnock Mountain
House for thirty years.

We were almost always accompanied by friends, at first by
Thomas A. Henshaw, who was about twice our age, whom
we had met there on our first going thither, and with whom
we remained in intimate friendship until his death in 1909.
His niece, Gertrude L. Hodges, was also with us, and later
we drove up in our car with my cousin William L. King and
his wife. Eventually, beginning in 1925, we had with us our
friends Herbert and Grace Jackson for two July weeks of
seven consecutive summers. Occasionally we remained home,
and I then especially enjoyed working in my garden, which
had to be neglected while we were at Monadnock.

Since Monadnock always beckons us in mind as well as in
body, I must say something more about our summer weeks
there. It is now six years since we last made that journey by
train from Boston to Fitzwilliam, where we left the railroad
to travel by automobile through the woods, along the coun-
try roads and up the mountain side. I find by dead reckoning
that we passed more than half a year at Monadnock in home-
opathic instalments, and that is quite a slice out of anyone's
lifetime. In the first period of our visits there, we would go
on to the next station beyond Fitzwilliam, which is Troy
(New Hampshire, and not New York or Asia), and it would
then take over two hours for the horse-and-carriage trip,
while in the later days by motor the lapse of time was less
than half an hour, although it was seven miles from Fitzwil-
liam to the five from Troy.

When our railroad station was Troy, our post office was
Fitzwilliam, and the hotel itself stands in Jaffrey, which three
towns are among the half-dozen clustered in the valleys at the
foot of the mountain. On the train journey we would stop at
Winchendon in Massachusetts, renowned for its manufacture

Vacations at Monadnock 299

of toys, and at its railroad station we would look curiously at
the wooden image of a horse placed there to advertise the
resources of the town. When we reached Troy about ten
miles further along, the stranger would naturally think, if he
remembered his Homer, that a serious mistake had been
made and that the horse had been placed in the wrong town.

During our summer days high up on the western side of
Monadnock, we would look at the rocky peak above us, and
downward from the hotel piazza to widespread scenes over the
hills and valleys of southwestern New Hampshire, southern
Vermont and northwestern Massachusetts. Below us was the
little manufacturing town of Troy, the only settlement in
sight from that point of vantage. In the foreground rose Gap
Mountain, with its two rounded humps whence came its
name; the town of Fitzwilliam nestled behind it, and across
the valley and over the railroad track that ran from Boston
to Montreal was the lesser mountain known as Little Monad-
nock. Beyond the ridge behind the hotel on the easterly side
of the mountain were the Peterboro Hills and Pack Monad-
nock in the near distance, and beyond them the higher
ranges of southern New Hampshire.

We would diversify our mornings and afternoons by climb-
ing through the woods along the carefully marked trails that
radiated upwards and downwards from the hotel, we would
sit beside the wood-burning stove in the office, for there were
many chilly hours even in July and August when a good fire
was necessary. We would also pace the piazza extending along
the entire hotel front, looking horizonward from what we
might easily imagine to be the promenade deck of a ship at
sea, with the clouds rolling below us like waves of the ocean.
It was also my special diversion to climb above the hotel over
the rocks, or to go down the road, to pick blueberries in the
pastures. And often we would take our ease seated just within
the door of the old New England barn watching a continuous
procession of automobiles on a pleasant day as they came up

goo / Speak for Myself

the road with their freight of climbers intent on conquering
afoot the mountain heights which rose one thousand feet
above them. They were obliged to disembark there, for that
spot was the end of the road. The barn, by the way, no longer
stands, for if it had not been demolished, it would have fallen
into the ruins of its old age.

Looking into the days gone by, as we sat there, I could
bring to mind the gate that had closed the private road, over
a mile in length, which barred the way to the hotel. It was
opened only when a vehicle came along that wanted to enter,
and was thereupon closed. On it were inscribed the words,
"Horseless carriages not admitted/' and the rule was always
enforced, until with the march of time arrived the day when
nothing but motor vehicles came that way. Drawn by horse
or otherwise, they had to pay $ i .00 for the privilege of using
the road, which belonged to the owners of the property, and
not to the town or state. The owners paid for keeping it in
the repair which was necessary to make it safe.

To visit these scenes, and to stop at the hotel, was not to
leave all thought of books behind. The literary associations
of Monadnock are many and lingering. By all who visit and
ramble through its woods, the names of Emerson and Tho-
reau are constantly seen and heard. In a field outside the gate
stood a lonely-looking little house known as the Emerson
cottage, where Dr. Edward Waldo Emerson passed many of
his summer days. One evening, as we were seated in the hotel
office, and I was reading short stories aloud, a diversion I was
frequently drafted to perform, we heard a faint sound at the
door. It was opened, and there stood the shy figure of a man
who appeared to be dazed. I did not recognize him, but the
hotel clerk immediately exclaimed: "Why, Dr. Emerson!"
He had wandered from his home below, over a mile away,
and did not know where he was. Mrs. Blair, one of the owners
then in charge of the hotel, telephoned his house, and was
told that they were relieved to hear about him, for they had

Vacations at Monadnock 301

seen and heard nothing from him all the afternoon. An auto-
mobile was brought out at once, and in a few minutes he was
restored to his family. Like his famous father, he had lost his
memory in his old age, and though the mountainside had
been familiar to him from boyhood, he had become oblivious
to his surroundings. We never saw him again, for he died
soon afterwards. His title of Doctor was professional, for he
had been for many years a practicing physician in Concord.
Memories of both these famous authors, Emerson and Tho-
reau, confront the visitor to Monadnock at every turn. The
Thoreau Trail leads up a steep grade back of the hotel to
the high ridge overlooking Jaffrey, Monadnock and the Peter-
boro Hills. From the Emerson Seat and the Thoreau Rock
there, a far vista carries the eyes of the observer eastward and
northward, and thence must have gazed those men from Con-
cord over scenes of solitude and beauty that contrasted sharply
with the low-lying meadows and streams of the historic town
where they had passed the greater number of their days. Any-
one who looks through the collected editions of their writ-
ings will find references to the Monadnock they loved so well.
Is it any wonder that we too love Monadnock and its memo-
ries, and that we wonder if we shall ever see them again?

81

Days in My Garden

SINCE I HAVE GONE so far into my story, it seems about time
that I should say something about the house and grounds on
Pleasant Street in Arlington where we dwelt for the thirty-
one years from 1908 to 1939. We had been living in an apart-
ment in Brookline on the other side of Boston for about a
year and a half, and we soon began to long for a house of our
own and a plot of land upon which we could place our feet
whenever we wanted to go out of doors. Through an adver-
tisement in the Transcript, we went out to Arlington one
Sunday, and found exactly the sort of place we wanted. The
house was old-fashioned and attractive, the land was about
an acre, and it contained an abundance of apple and other
fruit-bearing trees, with currant, gooseberry and blackberry
bushes and grapevines. Also there was room for the growing
of flowers, and especially of vegetables, which I particularly
wanted. We leased the place for three years, and then
bought it.

Was I a successful farmer or gardener? I certainly was not.
On Saturdays and Sundays I spent four or five hours, with
other periods at intervals during the week, working in my
garden, enjoying every moment, no matter what my lack of
success or how hard I worked. If I had depended upon my
crops, or if I had sought to maintain a real farm and depend

302

Days in My Garden 303

upon it for our living, we should have starved. Sometimes
our vegetables would grow and allow themselves to be har-
vested, and at other times they refused to obey my orders as
though they had a spite against me. I was very successful with
beans of the variety known as Kentucky Wonder, but a plen-
tiful supply of peas was unknown, and although I planted
and hoed them, and tied the vines into an upright posture,
their yield was pitiful. Yet I persevered with them spring
after spring. Cornstalks would grow valiantly, but there were
few edible ears of corn on them. I had a fair amount of suc-
cess with carrots, but the other root crops such as beets, tur-
nips, parsnips, and also the cucumbers and squashes, were so
scanty as to be almost negligible. But year after year I per-
severed, always hoping for a better season to come.

For a time my trees bore abundantly, and we had all the
apples we wanted to eat, to store for the winter and to give
away. During my first years there I planted many dwarf and
a few standard apple trees, but they did not prosper, and
eventually they all, old and new trees, through the ravages of
time and the weather, especially the disasters of the great hur-
ricane of September, 1938, left me with no practicable or-
chard. In the end, I might better have had no orchard at all,
for the useless apples that fell from the trees cumbered the
ground, and caused me a great deal of labor in their gather-
ing and disposal into garbage cans. The trees were losing
limbs and branches so continuously that I spent many hours
with axe and saw, giving me plenty and to spare of fuel for
our living-room fireplace.

Our house itself was solid and sturdy, going on almost to a
century of existence. As the land sloped downward from the
street, it sat directly on the ground at the front, and needed
no steps there, and the rear of the first floor was one story
above the lower level, overlooking the orchard and garden
from the dining room, underneath which was the kitchen,
available by a flight of stairs, and by a dumb-waiter off one

304 / Speak for Myself

side in a pantry. When we first looked through the house we
thought this would be a disadvantage, but we grew to like it.
It was pleasant to have the kitchen removed from alongside
the dining room, and to have a clear outlook upon our land
from the rear windows, and the view of the large Arlington
lake, Spy Pond, only about three hundred feet away. And
there was the large old barn, with three stories and a cellar.
This was my workshop, and my garage during the twelve
years when we were driving our automobile over almost the
entire eastern and central sections of Massachusetts. In spite
of the attractions of this place, however, we were not sorry to
leave it and go back to apartment-house life.

82

Walt Whitman and
J. T. Trowbridge

I HAVE MADE THE ACQUAINTANCE of many authors, both Eng-
lish and American, sometimes by personal meeting, sometimes
by correspondence, and sometimes by both. The beginning
of the excitement over Walt Whitman came long before my
day, but I had a sort of vicarious knowledge of him by visits
from Horace Traubel, who had been his companion, friend
and literary factotum in the Camden cottage where the poet
passed his last years. Traubel was a native of Camden, a poet
himself who had known Whitman since boyhood, and a sharer
of some of the poet's radical views. He kept a diary of their
association which was published in three large volumes en-
titled "With Walt Whitman in Camden/' but they contain
only a small portion of his extensive records. Traubel was a
very likable man, as I discovered from his correspondence
and occasional calls when he came to Boston after Whitman's
death. He was the product of two races, his father being a
Jew and his mother a Gentile. This he himself told me,
though I had never guessed it.

Willingly I found space in the Transcript for some of his
Whitman memorabilia, and a miscellany selected from it is
in the Harvard College Library. It was agreeable to talk to

35

306 / Speak for Myself

Traubel because of his quiet and kindly manner, and his
reminiscences of his association with the good gray poet. I
wish I might have seen him oftener and known him better,
for he was to me an echo of the voices of the American liter-
ary past. He was a man of thwarted ambitions, for he over-
estimated the value and permanence of his own writings, both
his prose and his verse. As a chronicler and keeper of Whit-
man's slightest words, he was indefatigable; had he been more
selective and reticent, he would have done his friend a greater
service.

During his last years, while he was climbing onward and
upward towards the great age of ninety, I was a near neigh-
bor of John Townsend Trowbridge in Arlington, and when
I think of Whitman I think of him, for in a conversation
once he asked me if I had known the poet. Thereby he cred-
ited me with more years than I deserved. Trowbridge had
lived on Pleasant Street since 1867, and he died there in 1916.
Seeing him on his strolls through the street by my house, and
talking to him, carried my mind back to my boyhood days
when I was reading with great admiration his Jack Hazard
stories, and also some of his other fiction addressed to grown-
up readers. Among them were "Cudjo's Cave/ 1 "Neighbor
Jackwood," and notably that short story with the appealing
title of "The Man Who Stole a Meeting House," which first
appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, and is now included in
one of his volumes of short stories. When I looked for some
mention of it in his autobiography, "My Own Story," I was
surprised and disappointed to see nothing there about it. I
still think it a masterpiece of the form of original humor that
made him the precursor of Frank R. Stockton, although he
never was so fantastic as the author of "The Lady or the
Tiger?" Those were the days when Oliver Optic, Elijah
Kellogg, Horatio Alger and Harry Castlemon reigned in the
hearts of boy (and often girl) readers, and I have always

Walt Whitman and J. T. Trowbridge 307

thought that Trowbridge was the best, though not the most
prolific of them all. A volume of his poetry contains his
familiar "Darius Green and His Flying Machine," first pub-
lished in Our Young Folks, and his equally popular versified
tale of "The Vagabonds," which first appeared in the Atlantic
Monthly.

He could always tell many good stories and talk happily
about his active past, and give abundant reminiscences of the
literary people who filled it, notably in his Boston days. One
of the best and most personal of these stories, related by him
when I was seated in his parlor as one of a group of friends,
was the remark made to him by a colored servant, "coal-
black," as he described her. "You do remind me so much of
my dear departed husband," she said, "you walk so proud."
No characterization of him could be more exact, for he stood
as firm and erect when he was in the eighties as he must have
been in the forties. It seems a pity that the books of J. T.
Trowbridge are so much out of date in this ultramodern
twentieth century, into which he lived for no less than sixteen
years. And where also are the many other novelists and story-
tellers of yesterday? Have modern technique and altered
tastes, if not the wind, blown them all away back into the
past of their own epochs? It may be, but they without doubt
remain in the memories of some of us who feel sure that the
favorites of the past are better than the favorites of the pres-
ent. The times and the manners have changed, of course, but
not with all of us.

83

At a Luncheon to H. G. Wells

ONE AFTERNOON IN THE OCTOBER OF 1931, during one of
H. G. Wells's periodical globe-trotting tours when he in-
cluded the United States in his itinerary, he came over to
Boston. After a reception and dinner in Cambridge, several
of us were invited by Frank Nelson Doubleday of the publish-
ing house then issuing his books to meet him the following
noon at an informal luncheon in the Copley Plaza Hotel. As
I remember, there were fewer than ten of us at the table.
Ellery Sedgwick of the Atlantic Monthly, Robert Choate of
the Boston Herald, Professor Samuel Eliot Morison of Har-
vard were among them, and I was accompanied by my friend
and associate of the Transcript, Karl Schriftgiesser. Mr.
Mandell, our managing editor, had been invited, but it was
almost impossible to persuade him to attend such functions,
even with the inducement of sitting at the table with the
renowned H. G. Wells. It would of course have been a great
pleasure to us to have him there.

It was my privilege to sit on Mr. Wells's right, with Mr.
Sedgwick on his left. My conversation with the chief guest
was casual. He referred of his own volition to George Gis-
sing, to that author's early marital infelicities, and especially
to the disguised biography of him written by Morley Roberts
under the title of "The Private History of Henry Maitland,"
to which I have already referred. He spoke of his own appear-

At a Luncheon to H. G. Wells 309

ance in it under the discernibly disguised name of Rivers, a
fact I already knew, together with other false names that de-
ceived nobody who knew anything about Gissing. Among
other not very important things I said to Wells was that I
wished he would revert to the style of some of his earlier real-
istic novels like "Kipps" and "Tono Bungay," meaning of
course that I preferred them to his later excursions into
politics and social and economic discussions in the form of
fiction or otherwise. His reply was, "Those days are past and
gone/' or words to that effect. Yet, such is the outcome of the
passing of time from one to another era that when I opened
recently both of those novels to re-read them, my interest in
them was so mild that I did not take the trouble to finish
their reading.

One remark Wells made across the table to Professor Mori-
son struck me forcibly by its bluntness. Both had been present
at the dinner in Cambridge the evening before, and Professor
Morison said something that recalled the occasion to Wells's
mind. Whereupon he blurted out, "You said that last eve-
ning," in a tone that implied, "Well, can't you say anything
new." Of course no offence was meant, but it sounded dis-
courteous. On the whole, however, the hero of the luncheon
impressed me by his quietude of manner and mildness of
speech. There was not the slightest trace of "I am the great
Wells" in anything he said. The moment he entered the room
after the rest of us were assembled I was astonished by the
accuracy of his printed likenesses, and in every respect he was
worth the two hours we spent in his company. I have never
seen him since, nor have I had any correspondence with him.
The luncheon, I may add, began with the conventional round
of cocktails in those days of supposed prohibition, and with
one exception the entire company each had his share. The
exception, it is perhaps needless to say, was not Wells, and
neither was it I.

Vale H. T. Parker

WHEN I RECEIVED BY TELEPHONE one March evening in 1934
the news that H. T. Parker had died of pneumonia, I was
aghast. Although I knew he was not immortal, I had never
thought he would die. It was incredible that he was dead, that
he was no longer in this world, that I was never to see him
again as he flitted by me in the Transcript hallways, on the
stairs, as he sat at his desk, or as he opened my door and said
to me, referring to a play he had suggested I ought to see:
"Those seats will be ready for you at the box office this eve-
ning." I don't know what state of mind I could have been
in, but it seemed strange that I should be alive and he dead.
I had not even known that he had been taken to a hospital,
or that he had not been in the office during the preceding
week. When we saw each other we merely took it for granted,
and when we did not see each other we likewise took it for
granted that we were somewhere about the buildings.

The full name of H. T. P., as he almost invariably signed
himself, was Henry Taylor Parker. He had been on the
Transcript in one capacity and another since he began writ-
ing special articles for it when he was a student at Harvard in
the late eighties. He represented us as a correspondent in
New York and London, and back in New York again, until
he came over to Boston to remain for the rest of his life. He

310

Vale H. T. Parker 311

responded immediately to Mr. Mandell's offer of the position
of editor of the music and drama departments in September,
1905, in succession to Edward E. Edwards, who had just died,
and who had succeeded me when I went to London in July,
1899. Also I had substituted for Mr. Edwards during his two
months 1 illness prior to his death.

Parker held one of the records of long Transcript service,
but unlike other members of the editorial staff he was at his
desk in Boston only through the theatre and concert seasons
of about ten months annually. But he was free to lengthen or
shorten that period as he chose. He usually left us about the
middle of every June, and returned early in September when
the theatres reopened at the end of their summer closing.
Sometimes he would go out West, sometimes to the White
Mountains, but customarily to Europe and its various theatre
and music centres. It was a vacation for him in name only,
for he was an assiduous worker, and while he was away he
wrote for us a series of letters in which he kept Transcript
readers informed about what was going on in England and
on the Continent, especially in the theatres and concert halls.
He received a salary during the Boston season, but for his
summer work he was paid space rates, which were much
higher than the reward of other contributors.

I doubt if there was any subject upon which Parker could
not and did not write. His specialty was the theatre and
music, but he could write with equal authority upon books,
painting, sculpture, architecture and all the fine arts, on
politics, economics, sociology, religion, and even on science.
He was one of the most generally well informed men I have
known. He wrote as one who knew the inmost heart of every-
thing. He took up a piece of writing with the surety of one
who knew he was able to accomplish it. His vacation period
gave him the opportunity to survey at will the whole world
of knowledge and thought, including of course his favorite
music and the drama. On nothing did he write except as a

gi2 I Speak for Myself

professional and a specialist; he was never the critical ama-
teur. He was an extremely resourceful journalist. There
seemed to be no boundaries to his scope. Perhaps his most
significant failing was due to his unlimited enthusiasm, to
his inability or unwillingness to make brevity the soul of his
knowledge. Too often, no matter how interesting his theme
or his treatment of it, he defeated his purpose as a writer who
was addressing the readers of a daily newspaper. Some of his
reviews of plays exceeded two columns in length, and that was
enough to exhaust anyone's patience when there was so
much else of importance to read in the Transcript.

Somehow, Parker had never been able to pursue a course
of academic study to its ultimate destination of a diploma or
a degree. He was for a time at Harrow in England, and he
entered Harvard in 1886, remaining until 1889, but he did
not graduate. It was always a marvel to me that he was con-
tent to remain on the Transcript so long, but this was prob-
ably because he was allowed by Mr. Mandell to have free
rein, and to say whatever he pleased in his columns, no matter
what his remarks might be, how offensive were his reflections
upon some artist's ability and skill, how independent he
might be in his association with his fellow workers, or in his
attitude towards those readers who might come to him with
a polite request for the insertion of news. All the rest of us,
in the turning in of our copy and the make-up of our pages,
would be subjected to reasonable restrictions of time and
space, but never Parker. For a while he did not begin the
writing of his review of a play or concert given the evening
before, until the next noon, with the result that no portion
of his article would appear in the first edition, a fragment
only in the second edition, while the complete review would
not appear until the last edition, which came out at four
o'clock.

Then all of a sudden he changed his methods, and it was an
improvement. He would write his review immediately on his

Vale H. T. Parker 3 1 3

return to his room in the Hotel Vendome, where he had
lived permanently since his mother's death about 1912.
When his work was finished, he would take the manuscript
down to the hotel office, where it was picked up by a Tran-
script messenger to be in the hands of the compositors when
they began their task in the morning. But that was by no
means the end of his labors over an article. He arrived at the
Transcript office about noon, and thereafter he would be
seen at intervals in the composition room bending over a
form and making careful excisions, additions and corrections,
some necessary and some not. On Friday evenings, in prepar-
ing his pages for the Saturday paper, he would retain a man
or two of the make-up force at their job until well after mid-
night, thereby increasing substantially the extra expense for
overtime work. None of the rest of us would be permitted to
do that. And his language to the men when he thought they
had not treated him with proper respect! Some of them
would delightedly tell amusing stories about him. There was
even a legend about one unusually mild-mannered man who
gave him as good as he sent, and struck Parker dumb.

It would be impossible to do justice to Parker without
reference to his handwriting, which was difficult to an almost
unimaginable degree. He would not use a typewriter. An
effort had been made in the days long ago, when he was in
New York, to induce him to master its intricacies; but after
having given the machine what I fear was not a fair trial,
he abandoned the effort within less than a week, and never
returned to it. When he came to be with us in Boston, it was
discovered that his penmanship was not so unmanageable if
one became accustomed to it by constant reading. A special
proof reader was assigned to the task, and she succeeded ad-
mirably even if he was not on the spot for ready consultation.
She pleased him so greatly that she was given all the theatre
passes she wanted, and they were also frequent companions
on first nights. Unfamiliar names, especially of European

314 / Speak for Myself

musicians, were the most refractory to struggle with, and he
must be given the credit of trying to be legible in the most
disadvantageous circumstances. The typewriter would have
minimized the difficulty, but that was not for the incorrigible
Parker.

After all, it is really wonderful how typographically excel-
lent Parker's articles were when they came to the eyes of the
reader. There were many stories current in the office about
Parkerian misprints, but the greater number refer to mis-
takes only in the proofs, which compositors and correctors
were glad to hold in their memories and retail to receptive
listeners. The best I remember is one that was wholly due to
the blindness of the copy. He had ended an enthusiastic re-
view of one of Bayard Veiller's plays with these words: "Mr.
Veiller is rich and risen." It came out in the proof, "Mr.
Veiller is sick and sore," and it is to be hoped that it was cor-
rected before the type was put into the forms.

Another story has to do with a note to the manager of the
Hollis Street Theatre requesting seats for one of our men.
The manager read it, came out from his inner office laughing,
and asked: "What do you make of this?" What he read was:
"Will you please let the loveless Mr. Clapp have two seats
After due pondering and consultation, the puzzle was at last
solved, and what Parker really had written was: "Will you
please let the tireless Mr. Clapp have ..." Mr. Clapp used
to tell this story himself with great glee. And so I might go
on with this reminiscence of the Parker chirography, but I
am not writing a biography of him as a penman. The
Parkerian anecdotes are endless, whether he was in the office
or elsewhere.

Wherever he might be, H. T. P. was alternately imper-
turbable and excitable. As he was sitting at his desk one day
in his little room on the Milk Street side of the Transcript
Building, a manhole cover almost under his window blew
off with a resounding roar. Consternation reigned both

Vale H. T.Parker 315

within and without, but Parker moved not a hair's breadth,
going on with his writing in spite of the noise made by his
comrades as they rushed to and fro and looked to see if any
damage had been done. None had, least of all to Parker,
either mentally or physically, and he uttered not a word as
his pen moved steadily over the copy paper before him.

While he was occupying a temporary room whose windows
looked down into a narrow alley, he became frantic. Coming
in late one Tuesday morning, he seated himself at his desk
to write a review of the play he had seen the previous eve-
ning; but he remained there only a few moments. There
was banging and rattling five stories below him, and after
an ineffectual attempt to stop the racket he leaped to his
feet, put on his overcoat and hat and left the building. He
was not seen again there until Thursday morning to write
the belated review, and it appeared that afternoon, two days
late. On another occasion, I think in the same room, he
found the door locked, sought and could not retrieve his
keys, and then in his impatience smashed the glass in the
door, turned the handle and entered in triumph, giving im-
perative orders that the door was never to be locked again.

He was so inveterate a cigarette smoker that the little
white roll of tobacco seemed to be an editorial and critical
part of himself, especially when the ashes profusely decorated
the front of his coat and he made not the slightest attempt
to brush them off. He had a habit of dangling the cigarette
loosely in the exact middle of his lips so that it wagged as he
talked. Once in a while, in his later years, he would sub-
stitute a pipe for the cigarette, but he never seemed to be
the same H. T. P. with that cumbersome article in his
mouth. All these seeming inconsistent attributes made him
all the more individual and interesting.

Probably there was never anybody on the Transcript who
was so much the object of personal comment and con-
troversy. I do not want to say that he was universally dis-

316 / Speak for Myself

liked, but it often seemed as if he were trying to be. His ap-
pearance and manner were not engaging, and it is nothing
but the truth to say that he had more enemies than friends.
Neither of these words is exactly correct, for dislike of him
did not extend as far as enmity nor did liking imply friend-
ship. He was frequently unapproachable to the extreme of
discourteousness, especially if anybody accosted him, even
for a good reason, in the midst of his work. Yet he did not
hesitate to interrupt anyone in similar circumstances. I have
known him to say "Get out of here" simply because he was
in that mood at the moment. Many times he would enter my
room and speak to me without the slightest apology if I
were in close conversation with a visitor, but I would be
calm and show no sign of resentment. And he might come
up to me, when I was talking with a man he knew as well
as I, without giving him the slightest greeting.

To an applicant for theatre passes he would be alternately
agreeable and disagreeable. You never knew how to take
him. Personally I was never a victim of these eccentricities,
for I almost instinctively knew his mood, and did not re-
frain from availing myself of it. One of his offences, how-
ever, I shall never forgive or forget. I had at home a set of
Shakspeare in small volumes, one volume to a play, which
contained interesting material from commentators. At his
request I foolishly lent him two of these volumes, and they
were never returned despite my requests. I gave up at last,
for I knew what he had done to them. He had torn or cut
out the pages that contained the matter he wanted to have
reprinted in the Transcript and had sent them up to the
composition room as part of his copy for an article he was
writing or compiling. I realized that they were gone forever,
and that further protest was useless. He had ruined my
Shakspeare set without the slightest remorse, but why should
I worry? The fault was mine in lending them to so irrespon-
sible a person.

Vale H. T. Parker 317

Parker was a small man physically, almost diminutive,
veiy agile in mind and body. He had several nicknames.
\Vhether he knew them, I am unaware. One of these was
"Hell to pay," apropos his initials and his excitability. He
never hesitated to reprimand conspicuously offenders in an
audience who were annoying him and others by talking
during a performance. He would even stand in the middle of
the street to deride and shake his cane at a policeman who
had dared to give him orders. In addition to carrying this
cane, he was in the habit of wearing a cape with a red lin-
ing, which of course made him a distinctive sight. "That's
Parker," many would say, as if he were a celebrity, which
he was.

There was a general chorus of regret, both within and
without the Transcript, when he died. It was the expression
of an honest feeling that he was a loss, and that he could not
be replaced. For almost thirty years he had had complete
charge of both the music and the drama in the Transcript,
editing and writing a large part of his pages. It was excep-
tional for an editor to write so much; it was also exceptional
for one man to deal with both subjects. Almost every daily
newspaper of any standing had one man for each art. It was
to Parker's credit that he was considered capable of both.
The Parker hand and the Parker touch were omnipresent.
That portion of the Transcript was pervaded by his person-
ality. It is significant that since his death separate editors
have been necessary for the drama and music, and that he
has had several successors in each role.

What he wrote and was published in all these very active
years would fill innumerable volumes, and much of it would
be worth while as a permanent chronicle of and commentary
upon those arts. Yet he had had published but one small
volume, entitled "Eighth Notes," the significance of which
will be readily understood by anyone with only the slightest
knowledge of music. Its subtitle is "Voices and Figures of

gi8 / Speak for Myself

Music and the Dance," and it is justly dedicated "To
G. S. M., who gave me opportunity." This is graceful and
gracious, and above all else it is truthful. My copy of Parker's
book is characteristically signed in handwriting that could
belong to none other: "E. F. E. H. T. P. x/so/23/'

I went to Parker's funeral, not through a sense of duty,
but for two selfish reasons. One was that the service came at
a convenient early afternoon hour; the other that I was
curious to see what would happen at the ceremonies over so
distinctive a personality. The rooms in an uptown suite of
"Funeral Parlors" were filled. I felt instinctively that he
would have taken some satisfaction in the proceedings,
exigent though he was in life. A large number of his Tran-
script associates were there, more than I had expected, with
many members of the music and drama professions. Some
of them came from a distance, for he was a critic of more
than local repute.

The officiating clergyman was Dr. Albert C. Dieffenbach,
who had been editor of the religious news department of
the Transcript for only a short time. He spoke with the
fitting reserve of the clergyman who has not known the de-
ceased intimately, without the dreary conventional en-
comiums. It was one of the most sensible funeral services I
ever attended. For some weeks the Transcript contained
articles, letters and pictures that evidenced the conspicuous
and influential place he had held not merely in the paper
itself, but also in the cultural life of the community.

I can think of much more to say about H. T. Parker, but
why say more? I have tried to give a truthful and balanced
portrait of him as I saw and knew him for forty years. But
did I really know him? Few did.

A Group of American Novelists

EVER SINCE "The Gentleman from Indiana" and "Monsieur
Beaucaire," which came at just the turn of the century,
Booth Tarkington has been giving frequent evidence of the
resources of the American scene and the American character
in his fiction. I have been following it with unflagging in-
terest, and I am here presenting two pertinent letters, one
written for him by Mrs. Tarkington while he was under the
care of oculists, and the other written by him from his sum-
mer home in Maine:

JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL
BALTIMORE, Sept. 30, 1930
DEAR MR. EDGETT

I had the very great pleasure of reading your splendid tribute
to Mr. Tarkington and to "Mirthful Haven," and he asked me to
send you his thanks and deep appreciation. He especially enjoyed
your opinion of this book and he only regrets that he is not able
to write you himself. May I add my own great thanks to my hus-
band's and join him in warm best wishes to you. You lightened
the dark days more than you will ever know.

Sincerely yours,

SUSANNAH TARKINGTON

32O / Speak for Myself

SEAWOOD, KENNEBUNKPORT, MAINE

September gth, 1933
DEAR MR. EDGETT:

I should have written you before this to express my warm ap-
preciation of your most friendly review of "Presenting Lily Mars;"
but some physical disabilities have been interfering with my cor-
respondence.

There's very little that one can say in response to a kind opin-
ion of his work except "Thank you." And naturally I am saying
that to you with no inconsiderable warmth.

Indeed, I say it not once but repeatedly, and I should be utter-
ing a repetition even had you not been so generous as to repeat
your friendly opinion of the book, yourself.

Most gratefully yours,

BOOTH TARKINGTON
* * *

Some years before anyone had heard of "Main Street"
the novel by Sinclair Lewis, I mean he was writing me let-
ters as head of the publicity department of George H.
Doran Company; but even then perhaps the idea of that
story was running through his mind. He was writing fiction
while he was publicizing the fiction of others, and it was on
May 3, 1915, that he wrote to me the following letter:

DEAR MR. EDGETT;

In a few days I shall be sending you, with other important
books, the complete Jacob Stahl trilogy, by }. D. Beresford, with
a long letter about it. We have finally published the new volume,
"The Invisible Event," and have taken over from Little, Brown
and Company and are publishing "The Invisible Event" with
the first two volumes.

I don't believe there's any case of more unfortunate neglect of
a great man than the public has shown toward Beresford. Though
the first two volumes of the trilogy were admirably reviewed, they
are not at all widely known.

Consequently there is here a chance for a real "literary dis-
covery." The entire trilogy could be reviewed together, with an
appraisal of Beresford as a whole, and would make a striking
feature.

A Group of American Novelists 321

To find out whether this is worth while, won't you read the
trilogy? I want to recommend it and recommend it personally,
not just as the editor for Doran as one of the most real realistic
things for a good many years; and I want to beg you to give it
your best attention.

I'll be sending you with the books a note about Beresford him-
self. If you'd like, I'll also send you Beresford's other book,
"The House in Demetrius Road."

Sincerely yours

SINCLAIR LEWIS

This shows the eloquence with which a potential novelist
can acclaim the well deserved virtues of an earlier novelist.
And now Sinclair Lewis is riding along the Main Street of
popularity, principally as a novelist, and sometimes as a
dramatist and actor. In popularity, despite his efforts in
those years past, I fear that the name and novels of J. D.
Beresford are lagging far behind him, although the Beres-
ford reputation is still high, and he continues to be praised
by literary commentators, both English and American. He
has not yet, however, been invited to share a seat with Sin-
clair Lewis among the Nobel Prize winners.

Even though I had reviewed appreciatively Charles G.
Norris's first novel, I was surprised when I received the fol-
lowing letter his first to me dated from Port Washington,
New York, on March 14, 1916:

MY DEAR MR. EDGETT

Frank Adams of the New York Tribune sends me the issue of
the Boston Transcript containing your review of my first book,
"The Amateur." I cannot begin to thank you for all the encour-
aging things you find to say of it and especially for your con-
sideration in failing to mention that I am Frank Norris's brother
or Kathleen Norris's husband.

In the midst of my second novel the commendation of the re-
viewer of the Boston Transcript is a very heartening experience.

322 / Speak for Myself

I believe that the novel I am writing now is an immeasurably
better piece of work than "The Amateur" and I hope you will
find it so. You are generous to pass over the crudities of my first
attempt. They scream at me from the pages and if they were as
obvious to the conscientious reviewer as they are to me, I fear I
should receive only the harshest criticisms.

Accept my thanks for your kindness and my assurance that
some day I hope to prove worthy of it.

Sincerely and gratefully

CHARLES G. NORRIS

The second novel to which Mr. Norris refers is "Salt, or
the Education of Griffith Adams," published in the year
after the writing of this letter. Several other pleasant letters
have reached me from him, and among them came a long
telegram that unfortunately I am unable to find in my files,
although I feel sure it must be there somewhere.

One letter and no more had reached me in 1912 from his
wife, Kathleen Norris, who was a popular novelist before
Mr. Norris himself decided to venture into that field of fic-
tion. It ran thus:

EDITOR, BOOK REVIEWS,
DEAR SIR,

It is not very often that I have the pleasure and pride that
your review of "Mrs. Burgoyne" on November 2nd, gave me. I
want to thank you heartily for it, and to assure you that it is a
real encouragement and inspiration to me. I am still so new in
this work that praise or blame affects me very much and I feel
it a great honor that you found the little book worthy of so dis-
criminating an analysis.

Believe me to be,

Yours very sincerely,

KATHLEEN NORRIS

The salutation shows that she did not know me personally,
but that made no difference in the satisfaction the letter gave
me. "The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne" appears from the list of her

A Group of American Novelists 323

books in "Who's Who in America" to have been her second,
following one of her most admired stories, "Mother," pub-
lished the year before. Mrs. Norris has been a prolific writer
of novels, their number, according to the authority I have
just quoted, being no less than fifty-seven. Of all I have read
and by no means have I read all I liked best "The Story of
Julia Page," one of her earliest. The record shows that she
has had as many as four books published in a single year! I
think that she will not feel hurt if I say that that seems too
many for even the most popular novelist to produce in such

a brief period.

* * *

I had written a sequence of somewhat antagonistic reviews
of two of Louis Bromfield's novels, "A Good Woman" and
"The Strange Case of Miss Annie Spragg," and their author
had read my opinions with an antagonism that was perhaps
so justifiable that he sent me a long letter of rejoinder. I was
glad indeed to have him give so much attention to what I
had written, and also to the Transcript. Furthermore, I
thought it fair to him to be permitted to voice his theories
and practice of the art of novel-writing, and I wrote him I
should be glad to publish his letter in the Book Section of
the Transcript. It filled a column or more, as I remember,
and I was careful to see that he should receive a copy of the
paper containing it. This is his acknowledgment written
from his home in France on December 14, 1928:

DEAR MR. EDGETT:

Thank you so much for your kind letter of November 27. I
appreciated it more than I can say and especially the friendly at-
titude which inspired it. As I wrote you, I really wanted you to
understand what I was driving at and that I did not write of such
people from perversity, but because to me at least they exist to a
painful degree in our American life. I have a very strong feeling
that the greatest weakness of our national character is a fear or a
refusal to face facts and come to grips with them. We either pre-

324 / Speak for Myself

tend that they don't exist or cloud the issue by fantastic legisla-
tion. I didn't think we are intellectually honest. No people is, of
course, but we're especially bad in that respect.
With best wishes for a good Christmas and New Year, I am

Yours faithfully,

Louis BROMFIELD

Now this is very fair, very frank, and a good example of
the proper way to observe the friendly amenities of author-
ship and criticism. Mr. Bromfield reveals the ability of at
least one novelist to receive and respond to what he consid-
ered was just and friendly criticism, and he enabled me to
understand perfectly his point of view, and his idea of what
the theory and practice of a novelist should be. It is evi-
dence of the none too common fact that it is possible to pre-
serve a clear relation between authorship and criticism, and
to accept both favorable and unfavorable comment with
equal equanimity. I have seldom received so welcome and
inspiring a letter from an author, and with Mr. Bromfield's
permission I place it on record here.

Through reading about it in books dealing with actual
mysterious murders, I had some knowledge of the Praslin
case that had set all Paris, and indeed all France and other
parts of the world, a-talking some eighty years ago. When I
heard that Rachel Field had written a novel based upon it, I
was glad. What gives to her novel, "All This, and Heaven
Too," a significant interest is the fact that her great-uncle,
the Rev. Henry M. Field, later married Mile. Desportes, who
had been a governess in the ducal Praslin family, and who
had been unhappily involved in the mystery.

I could not resist the temptation to write a letter of con-
gratulation to the novelist after I had read her book, and I
told her especially how regretful I was that, because I had
just left the Transcript, I was unable to write a review of it

A Group of American Novelists 325

for that paper. In this letter I emphasized my appreciation
of the skill with which she had so sympathetically mingled
fact with fiction, and naturally I was pleased to receive the
letter that follows. It was written from Hollywood, whither
the novelist had gone to be present during the making of
"All This, and Heaven Too" into a motion picture.

DEAR MR. EDGETT:

I am so glad that the advance copy of "All This, and Heaven
Too" reached you before publication, and am only sorry that I
did not have time to write an inscription on it. The truck strike
put us back in getting early copies off, and it was sent to you be-
fore I realized it had gone.

I certainly do wish that you might have reviewed it for the
Transcript or some other publication, for you have always been
so sympathetic to my books in the past, and knowing of the
Praslin affair you would have brought a special quality to your
criticism. But I am delighted to know that you think well of the
book. I meant to acknowledge }our November letter before this,
but my husband and I have been crossing the U.S.A., and getting
settled here has been very absorbing.

Please forgive my tardiness in replying to your letter.

Sincerely,

RACHEL FIELD PEDERSON

All I need add is that Miss Field's novel is historical fic-
tion at its best, especially because its tone, even though it
deals with a murder, makes a rare piece of literature re-
lieved of any implication of commonplace emotionalism. It
is a study of human nature as well as an effective story. The
author depicts the scenes, the incidents and the persons in
them as if she were an eyewitness. Some fault-finders might
say that she is oversympathetic with the misfortunes of mem-
bers of her family, but let them say it. The story bears every
evidence of truth and justice. It is one of those novels that
deserve to be read more than once.

326 / Speak for Myself

The following letter from a famous American story-teller
whose name stands with Mary Wilkins and Sarah Orne Jewett
in the first ranks of delineators of New England character
refers to an important and somewhat ironic incident of my
last years on the Transcript.

October 2ist, 1935
27 WATER STREET,
NEWBURYPORT
DEAR MR. EDGETT.

I have been told you have resigned from the Transcript. I'm
so sorry. But not for youfor now you will have time to look at
the evening and the morning and read the books that live. Good
luck!

Sincerely yours

ALICE BROWN

But Miss Brown was misinformed, or only partially in-
formed. I had not resigned, and I never did resign from the
Transcript. I was merely moved out of my room, and went
with my desk to enjoy the good companionship of Dr. Dieffen-
bach in his room at the other end of the hallway. I con-
tinued my connection with the Transcript by the writing of
book reviews and the giving of my weekly broadcasts about
books and authors from stations WBZ and WBZA. Then
after an interval of six months I returned to my old room for
further service as literary editor, in which position I re-
mained two years and a half.

86

As Poetry Editor

ONE OF MY DUTIES on the Transcript, inherited from my
predecessor, was to have charge of all the poetry or verses
sent in by its loyal readers for publication. It seemed as if
every reader at one time or another set himself (often it was
herself) down to write a poem. It seemed also as if thousands
of others had been told that the Transcript was in search of
poetry contributors. The word "poetry" must have been en-
graved on the minds of all these, although they had no abil-
ity to write it. A liking for its reading apparently had
aroused a delusion that they might follow in the footsteps of
the world's most famous poets.

The amount of this so-called poetry I received was stu-
pendous, and its variety was amazing. It was good, indiffer-
ent and bad, some of it so bad as to be comic. We pasted in
huge scrapbooks all of it that we printed, and until recently
they stood, or were laid, on the topmost shelf of a bookcase
that lined one entire side of my room, a monument to the
"literary" ambitions of multitudes who thought they were
commissioned to enlighten the world as modern successors of
Erato and her three sister Muses. Whether these scrapbooks
are still there as a part of my old-time room, I do not know;
but if they are they are covered with the dust and grime of
time and the hour.

3*7

328 / Speak for Myself

It is impressed upon my mind, however, that no matter
what their condition, or relative importance, these scrap-
books are worth preserving as relics of human endeavor, de-
serving a niche, or a series of niches, in a library that may
readily be consulted. It is a strange trait for so large a num-
ber of men and women to think it their duty to write what
they describe as ' 'poetry, certain that the world is anxiously
awaiting it. Several writers of this sort have been made
famous, or rather notorious, by ingenious editors who have
deliberately printed their lines in order that they might give
holidays of mirth to their readers. One of these was J. Gor-
don Coogler, who thought he was a great poet because he
saw himself so often in the columns of the New York Sun,
and another was dubbed "The Sweet Singer of Michigan."

All of us seem at one time or another to be possessed by
this mania of poetic ambition. I confess that I once suc-
cumbed to its by no means clarion call, and I also am glad
to confess that I soon discovered that the trumpet summon-
ing me was decidedly out of tune. The work of finding ideas
and contriving rhymes proved altogether too arduous, and I
had the common sense before long to see that I neither was
born a poet, nor could I achieve even an insignificant great-
ness in that role. It is a pity that others have not seen the
same light, even some of those modernists who have risen to
a slight eminence in the hall of poetic fame.

I had eloquent evidence of the futility of trying to write
poetry, or even verse, when I was reading the words and
words, the lines and lines, and the stanzas and stanzas that
came in my mail every day. Few of them found their way into
the Transcript. I am sorry now that I did not retain some of
these manuscripts in order to make a collection that would
reveal the folly of simple-minded egotism they expressed.
Perhaps in book form they would be a warning to poetic
aspirants who had no justification for their overweening am-

As Poetry Editor 329

bition. I even had rejection slips printed so that they might
be politely returned.

In my efforts to give my readers the best examples of
poetry that came my way, I sought to winnow the lot, and it
was a very easy task. As Bassanio said of Gratiano, there were
usually "two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff,"
and I certainly did not have to seek all day ere I found them.
My predecessor as poetry editor was possessed of a patience
and charity that was no part of my mental make-up. He
would spend hours in conversation with aspiring poets, giv-
ing them advice and striving to amend their verses, while he
ought to have had the courage to tell them frankly that their
ambitions might be better applied to more sensible work,
whether literary or otherwise. In the early days of my taking
over this duty, I fear I was not receptive enough to my
poetic callers; but I really could not spare the time to in-
vite them to take off their coats and sit down. Indeed, they
all too often did that without the invitation. During my
many years of handling manuscript verse, the most I gained
was a contempt for certain phases of literary ambition, and
for the deadly results of the itch for writing.

87

The Harvard Theatre Collection

MY INTEREST IN THE Theatre Collection at Harvard dates
back some thirty years to the time when it was housed in a
suite of rooms in the Colonial Building on Boylston Street.
That collection had its beginnings when Robert Gould
Shaw was an undergraduate at Harvard; after being kept in
his private residence for some time it increased to such an
extent that its removal became imperative, and he there-
upon leased the rooms in which I first saw it. Mr. Shaw,
who was possessed of ample means to pursue his hobby, was
an enthusiastic antiquarian of the theatre, and from its re-
moval to the Harvard College Library in August, 1915, until
his death in 1931 he held the title of Honorary Curator, with
Mrs. Lillian A. Hall then as now its Custodian.

The rooms that house the Collection are on the top floor
of the Library building overlooking a corner of the college
grounds with a glimpse of the adjacent Harvard Square.
They are commodious and well lighted, and are filled with
tables and bookcases and filing cabinets, while upon their
walls and also on the walls of the corridors leading thereto
are hung many pictures of the heroes and heroines of the
stage. Mrs. Hall, who has been connected with the Collec-
tion for twenty-nine years, has immediate charge of its vast
resources of theatrical memorabilia which include books,

330

The Harvard Theatre Collection 331

programs, playbills, press clippings, magazines, articles,
manuscripts, portraits and anything pertaining to every
aspect of the stage, its history and its people. All this material
is carefully arranged and catalogued so that it may be readily
accessible to everyone delving into the past of the theatre,
whether he is connected with Harvard or not. Four large
volumes compiled by Mrs. Hall and published by the Har-
vard University Press contain an alphabetical descriptive
catalogue of the engraved portraits in the Collection.

Long ago I began the accumulation of stage material that
includes books and pictures. Its principal, most extensive
and most valuable portion (from the standpoint of research)
is its array of newspaper clippings filed alphabetically in en-
velopes. This was begun by me in the eighties with the pur-
chase of one small package of oblong brown envelopes, and
as the years went on I was buying them by the thousands.
The number of cabinets was increased from time to time to
half a dozen large ones. How did I acquire these clippings?
The greater number were cut by my own hands from news-
papers that came to me at first through my connection with
the advertising agency where I was employed, and later
through my years on the Transcript, and to these were added
occasional gifts from friends or as legacies. Everything was
grist that came to the mill of my collection.

Gradually these clippings increased in bulk and number,
until the cabinets began to usurp space in my house. They
were rapidly getting out of bounds, and while I could spare
the time for looking through the newspapers, for their cut-
ting and labelling, the job was becoming too great for me to
continue their filing in my spare hours. Through Mrs. Hall
I offered to give them to the Harvard Theatre Collection,
and the gift was accepted, being delivered not at once, but
over a period of several years. They are now in the Harvard
Library, and thither not long ago went all my theatre ma-
terial except my books.

332 / Speak for Myself

Other enthusiasts have also contributed to these stage re-
sources, the largest acquisition coming from Evert Jansen
Wendell, who bequeathed his entire collection, which he
had been accumulating for decades. It was shipped to Har-
vard, where all the important material was retained, and the
rest, consisting mainly of duplicates, was sent back to New
York and sold there at auction, the proceeds being added to
the fund for the maintenance of the Harvard Theatre Col-
lection. The auction catalogues comprise six large paper-
covered volumes. Among other contributors were John
Drew, John Craig, Frank E. Chase of the Walter H. Baker
Company, and Henry M. Rogers, a Boston lawyer who was
an intimate friend of E. H. Sothern, E. S. Willard and other
eminent actors, and who died not long ago wearing all the
honors that come to one who has reached the great age suffi-
cient to be hailed as the oldest Harvard graduate. He died at
the age of ninety-eight in 1937.

My envelope arrangement of clipped book reviews from
the Transcript for our office use was one of the most service-
able reference features of my department. There was noth-
ing like it for other parts of the paper. These clippings were
arranged alphabetically in cabinet drawers along the walls
of my room, and for speedy consultation they were vastly
superior to the conventional scrapbook systems which re-
quire an index with all its time-wasting preparation. I began
it when I became literary editor, and it was continued unin-
terruptedly to the time of my departure, thereby giving a
complete record of the book reviews for nearly forty years.
It was of great help when the date of a review, or the review
itself, was sought, and it was often consulted both for our
own use, and in response to requests from our readers. Its
value was inestimable.

I accumulated at home another extensive collection of
clippings and miscellaneous articles on all subjects not per-
taining to the stage, and it too was recently added to the

The Harvard Theatre Collection 333

Harvard Library resources. It formed an important section
of my reference material, largely on literary matters, events
and personalities, and was of incalculable use to me when I
was seeking information that could not be found in ency-
clopaedias and other reference books. I could immediately
step to one of the cabinets containing it and would almost
certainly find what I wanted.

I hope this collection of clippings is serving a like purpose
for the patrons of the library, whether they be graduates,
undergraduates, or anybody who may happen to enter its
doors. Once in a while I am now disconcerted by the absence
from my home of all these filing envelopes and their con-
tents, but I realize they are of greater general value to the
multitudes engaged in research work at the library. As for
myself, I may easily step off at Harvard Square on my jour-
ney to or from Boston. Like everyone who goes into the
Harvard Library, one of the greatest in the world, I know I
am always welcome. Mrs. Hall has told me many times that
my files of clippings are among the most often sought and
the most valuable accessories of the Theatre Collection.

88

My Animosities

SINCE I AM A FIRM BELIEVER in the idea that an autobiog-
raphy should be a revelation of its author's mind, as well as
a record of events in his life, one chapter at least should be
devoted to a further statement of my animosities. I use this
word because it sounds more dignified and more polite than
"hatreds." It happens that I have such firm opinions upon so
many and such a great variety of things that I am able here
to set down only a few. If I went to their extreme I could
easily make a book of only a part of them. But too many
would weary their reader, and also myself. So instead of the
sixty or six hundred to which I might extend them, I am
selecting only six, with a possible glimpse at a few others.

There is little need for me to utter my abhorrence of pro-
hibition, for as a national law it is a dead and gone ideal of
an impossible social change which never had its expected
results, moral, ethical or financial. It caused an unprecedented
revolution in our minds and habits, and defeated the cause
it was supposed to foster. It never existed except in name.
As we all know, it increased the drinking habit, decreased
the quality of liquor and advanced its price. Millions re-
sented its invasion of their personal rights, and made them
determined not to obey such an unrighteous law. And it is
equally needless for me to say anything against another

334

My Animosities 335

futile example of high-minded idealism the League of Na-
tionswhich is as dead as prohibition. Since man is what
he is, these and other efforts to reform him are not, and
never will be, of the slightest avail.

The six animosities I have selected for a few words of op-
position are diversified. They are the Democratic party,
labor unionism, football, daylight saving, simplified spelling
and revolving doors. Their juxtaposition will doubtless
awaken a smile on the faces of all my readers. It does on my
own face. I deliberately assemble them here for the sake of
variety. I realize that these expressions of my dislike are of
no practical use, for they are all here to stay, with the possi-
ble exception of simplified spelling. Nothing I or anyone
else can say will destroy them, but that does not minimize
my opposition to any. Indeed, it stimulates me to speak my
mind. I will be as brief as I can, although in speech and
writing I might go on forever in voicing my vehement opin-
ions, as many of my friends well know when they have intro-
duced any of these and other subjects in my presence. It is
good for my soul to speak thus for myself.

Let me waste but little time and space with the Demo-
cratic party. Anyone who has reached this point in my story
knows what I think of the political organization that has
brought our country almost into the depths of destruction.
Eight years of maladministration should be enough. To say
more would be to tell a thrice-told story. Let this suffice,
for it was the Democratic party that we fought and con-
quered in 1861-1865, and it should have then been utterly
destroyed. Its very name is anathema to me, and to the
millions of other Americans who agree with me, but who
shrink from speaking their minds so freely and emphatically
as I.

Labor unions next. They seem to flourish in some minds
first, last and always. They call themselves, and are con-
stantly referred to, as "labor," implying that none but their

336 / Speak for Myself

members work for their living. They are the purveyors of
perpetual discord wherever they be or whatever they do.
They and their actions persistently perturb (this is a mild
word) my spirit so violently that I cannot think of them with
a calm mind. How can I avoid thinking of them when on the
first page of almost every daily newspaper they come before
my eyes with news of the trouble they are deliberately creat-
ing? They persistently interfere with and seek to destroy
many of our liberties. A man, a woman, a child have the
right, provided of course they do not obstruct the rights of
others (as the labor unions do), to work anywhere, any time,
for any payment. To put the matter in few words, there
should be no laws, nor even one law, interfering with the
right to labor. Even the labor unions are in conflict among
themselves, as is evident from the fights between their two
most prominent branches and leaders.

Conditions in this country were bad enough before the
fateful day in November, 1932, which changed the face of
the nation, and made it an autocracy, but they are now a
thousand times worse. If you say that the result of that elec-
tion was the will of a majority of the American people, I
say it was not. The people were deceived, as they were again
deceived in 1936, and as the attempt is being made to de-
ceive them in 1940. In recent years, new labor laws have
been sought, passed and enforced until the people have been
put under the overwhelming domination of the labor
unions. Even with war almost at our doors, they are making
trouble. There seems little necessity to speak about strikes,
"sit-down" or otherwise, or about the "closed shop/* which
is the utter negation of the greatest of human rights, the
right of a human being to earn his living even if he does
not choose to belong to an organization, a society, a club,
a union, call it what you please. I have worked for many
years in close association with members of labor unions
who know what I think of them; and, however much I may

My Animosities 337

like some of these men personally, I abominate their labor
union principles. And they know it.

In writing about football, I hope I am not repeating my-
self, for I have already said my say about it in my remarks,
some chapters back, upon college sports: Football is not
merely a brutal game; it is a death-dealing game, as deadly
in a smaller way as the present craze for airplane navigation.
The very rules of football are opposed to the prevalent im-
pulse towards safety. It is based upon the natural but repre-
hensible desire of man to destroy his fellow man. Its goal is
injury, its means are violence, and its ultimate purpose is
to put a combatant out of action at no matter what cost. It
appeals to all that is most deplorable in mankind, and it
depraves its spectators as well as its participants.

Football is one of the many evil factors in the life of today.
Once they had bear-baiting and cock-fighting, now some
countries have bull-fighting, and now all countries have
man-baiting and man-fighting. Football should be made a
sport of only bitter memory, if the colleges will do their
duty. No matter what the opposition by a certain class of
students, it can be forbidden. Almost at the moment of this
writing, word has come to me through the newspapers that
one of the leading American universities is preparing to out-
law it. What should be forbidden altogether is the participa-
tion of students in every form of intercollegiate athletic or
sporting activity. Then the colleges could devote themselves
exclusively to the legitimate objects for which they were
established and are managed study and the acquisition of
knowledge.

My other three animosities are minor by comparison with
these three major hatreds. Simplified spelling, sometimes
called reformed spelling, is an inept and ilk
There is no need for it. Language in al^
time, will adjust itself. Changes in ortJ
other verbal alterations, have been ma

338 / Speak for Myself

Chaucer and his predecessors. Many of these have been wel-
come, and some have been unwelcome; but they have not
been the results of formal efforts to make words look dif-
ferent. Nor have such efforts been of any permanent value.
We see such abominations as "thru," especially on street
signs; but the authorized spelling is still "through." There
is no need to pay any attention to such atrocities as "nabor-
hood" or "tonite," for they are merely instances of advertis-
ing perversions.

The subjects of the last of my two plaints are "daylight
saving" and revolving doors. The first is a feeble attempt to
persuade persons to get out of bed in the morning an hour
earlier under the false impression that they are rising at the
usual time. The excuse for this is that thereby they are add-
ing an extra hour of daylight diurnally to their lives. This
is too absurd to be argued, for if an extra hour of daylight
is given us by this means we could banish darkness alto-
gether by setting the clocks ahead a sufficient number of
hours. To call this "daylight saving" is of course a misnomer,
for no daylight is saved or gained. The number of hours of
daylight or darkness is always the same, no matter what is
done to our clocks or watches.

The English call this procedure by the strange words
"summer time," which are meaningless, for what time is
there in summer but summer time? The fallacy is further
emphasized by misstatements as to its origin, which is at-
tributed to Benjamin Franklin. What he really suggested
while he was living in Paris was that we get up at sunrise,
and he made no mention whatever of interfering with the
movement of the hands of timepieces. It was a very practical
suggestion by a master of common sense, and it is a pity
that his name should thus be taken in vain.

Revolving doors are difficult to push and also a danger
to anyone who is forced to navigate them. All who have
been injured by them will need no elaboration of my objec-

My Animosities 339

tions. Others will perhaps exclaim "aren't," or probably
"ain't," they wonderful! They certainly are, especially to
those who have received a broken wrist or arm from them.
All this I have said about the Democratic party, labor
unions, football, daylight saving, simplified spelling and re-
volving doors, may be heresy, which in the words of the
immortal Noah Webster, or one of his successors in the mak-
ing of his dictionary, is defined as "an opinion, held in
opposition to the established or commonly received doctrine,
and tending to promote division or dissension." All that I
need say in reply to a charge of heresy is in the slightly
changed words of another immortal American: "If this be
heresy, make the most of it."

A Trip to the South Seas

Do NOT BE DECEIVED by this title. I did not go in the flesh.
My voyage was merely an imaginary adventure based on
history. One of the few motion pictures I took an interest
in some five or six years ago was "Mutiny on the Bounty,"
which was derived partly from the annals of the British ves-
sel that sailed from Portsmouth to the South Seas more than
a century and a half ago, and largely from the series of three
books written by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall
at the inspiration of Ellery Sedgwick, then editor of the
Atlantic Monthly. These books are entitled successively
"Mutiny on the Bounty" "Men Against the Sea," and "Pit-
cairn's Island." I have lived in mind so completely with the
Bounty and the Pitcairn Islanders, and their entire story,
for half a century of my own life, that I feel justified in giv-
ing here as a part of my personal chronicle a comprehensive
though much abridged outline of the story.

The Bounty was a small ship-rigged vessel of only two
hundred and fifteen tons, and under the sponsorship of the
British government it put out to sea on December 23, 1787,
on a voyage that was to become an epic of maritime history.
Its unusual mission was to sail to Tahiti, the largest of the
group of the Society Islands in the South Pacific Ocean, in
order to gather breadfruit trees for the purpose of convey-

340

A Trip to the South Seas 341

ing them to the West Indies that they might furnish food
for the workers on the plantations. The vessel was ordered
to sail southward through the Atlantic Ocean and by way
of Cape Horn to Tahiti. Baffled by storms and adverse winds,
however, it was forced to turn eastward across the South
Atlantic around the Cape of Good Hope, and it arrived
eventually at Papeete, the capital of Tahiti, on October 26,
1788, ten months after leaving England. It remained there
with its officers and crew until April 4th of the following
year. Thence, with a full cargo of breadfruit trees, it started
on the last and most eventful stage of its voyage.

Trouble had been brewing almost from the start. The
captain of the Bounty was William Bligh, a lieutenant in
the Royal Navy who had served under Captain Cook. He
was an efficient sailor, but he was a tyrant and martinet of
the old school even in an age when brutal officers were the
almost universal rule. At last the inevitable outbreak came.
Infuriated by his rigorous and unjust treatment, a portion
of the crew under the leadership of Fletcher Christian, the
master's mate, seized the ship early in the morning of the
twenty-fourth day out from Tahiti, and the captain, with
eighteen men from among the officers and crew, were set
adrift in an open boat. The other officers and men of the
crew, some of whom had taken no part in the mutiny, sailed
the Bounty back to Tahiti under the command of Fletcher
Christian, who was their ablest man as well as their ring-
leader.

Attempts have been made to gloss over the character and
conduct, and to apologize for the nature of Captain Bligh's
dealings with his men, both officers and crew, but it is cer-
tain that there would have been no mutiny had he been a
sensible and fair-minded officer. While it must be acknowl-
edged that mutiny in itself is a crime and never justifiable,
it is no excuse to claim that he was like all the naval officers
of his time. In much of his testimony as a witness in Ports-

342 / Speak for Myself

mouth when some of the mutineers were brought to trial
upon their return to England, he was not always truthful.
Some years later he became involved in other difficulties
while holding high command on shore in Australia.

What happened to Captain Bligh and his eighteen com-
panions in the open boat during their perilous voyage across
thirty-five hundred miles of the tempestuous Pacific Ocean
to the port of Coupang on the island of Timor in the Dutch
East Indies is a story by itself that requires a circumstantial
chronicle elsewhere. It is too long to be related in a few
pages, and the complete story may be read as it is told with
substantial accuracy in the second volume of the Nordhoff-
Hall trilogy.

Remaining at Tahiti several months after its return from
the scene of the mutiny, the Bounty, with Fletcher Christian
still in command, sailed away to an unknown destination,
and nothing was heard of her for twenty years. Over a year
after her departure from Tahiti, those members of the
Bounty crew who had remained in Tahiti were taken aboard
the British ship Pandora, which had been sent out from Eng-
land in quest of the mutineers as soon as the survivors of
Captain Bligh's boat journey had reached home. They were
treated with extreme cruelty, and four of them were drowned
when she was wrecked off the coast of Australia. The sur-
vivors were taken to England in another vessel, tried for
mutiny; and of them three were convicted and hanged,
three were convicted and pardoned, and four were acquitted.
Of the second group, it is noteworthy that Peter Heywood,
a midshipman on the Bounty, soon afterwards entered the
Royal Navy, rose to the rank of Post Captain, and was on the
list to be made an Admiral when he died in 1831. Lady
Belcher, author of a book entitled "The Mutiny of the
Bounty/' was his stepdaughter.

On to Pitcairn's Island

THIS STORY OF THE Bounty, already divided into three sec-
tions, now enters its fourth phase. What had become of the
eight mutineers who had sailed with Fletcher Christian from
Tahiti accompanied by about a dozen men and women of
South Seas lineage? Their goal was of course a hiding-place
where they might be safe from the wrath of the British gov-
ernment. They knew that death awaited them if they were
discovered. After a search for an isolated and yet hospitable
refuge, they finally found haven on Pitcairn's Island, a tiny
and almost inaccessible dot in the midst of the vast wastes
of the South Pacific Ocean one thousand miles southeast of
Tahiti and not far from the Tropic of Capricorn.

The story of what happened to them and their descendants
is long and romantic, and is continuing even into these
middle years of the twentieth century. Not until 1808 were
they again seen by human eyes, and then because of the
arrival of an American whaling ship. Some time later a suc-
cession of British vessels arrived at intervals; but Britain
was engaged in important wars and had no time to trans-
port them back to England so long after the mutiny. John
Adams was the only mutineer alive, the patriarch and head
of the community. Since he was scarcely more than a boy
at the time of the mutiny, he could not have been, even at

343

344 ^ Speak for Myself

the time of his death, the venerable old man of many of the
Pitcairn stories. All that has been revealed of what happened
on Pitcairn after the arrival of the Bounty is derived from
his oral narratives, and they were not always consistent, at
least as they are recorded.

John Adams lived until 1829, and the population of the
island was increasing slow r ly. By 1852 it had risen to such a
number that its resources were becoming restricted, and at
their own request they were therefore taken in a British
government vessel to Norfolk Island, which was much larger
and nearer to New Zealand and Australia. Soon thereafter,
homesickness for Pitcairn recalled a few families to their old
home; others followed now and then, and the descendants
of the mutineers are now divided between the two islands,
with the larger number on Norfolk. They are of course a
mingling of two races, the British and the South Seas natives,
with a sprinkling of others who have made their homes there
from far-away parts of the globe. Many of their customs and
much of their language is English, and in religion they are
Second Adventists.

Much and more about all this may be read in the Nord-
hoff-Hall chronicles, and in other books that relate the story
variously as fiction, as fact, and as fiction mingled with fact.
Through the years, the Bounty and Pitcairn bibliography
has become extensive, and it is growing annually. Especially
valuable are the volumes written by Dr. Harry L. Shapiro of
the American Museum of Natural History in New York. He
has made a scientific study of the subject that took him on
two journeys to the South Seas, one to Norfolk Island and
the other to Pitcairn, where he lived among its people dur-
ing Christmas week of 1934.

My interest in and knowledge of the Bounty and Pitcairn
story has been increased and intensified through all the
years since I came across an account of it in a bound volume
of Harper's Magazine for 1872. This was derived from the

On to Pitcairris Island 345

book by Lady Belcher, and is illustrated with some striking
pictures of Pitcairn scenes and persons. In its entirety and
in all its details the story has lingered in the forefront of
my mind, and in pursuit of my hobby I have accumulated
and assembled all sorts of printed and written material
dealing with its aspects. This is readily accessible to me in a
special cabinet drawer, and rare and puzzling indeed must
be any question about it that I am unable to answer.

An important part of my Bounty records is mounted on
book-size sheets by the ingenuity and skill of my friend
Herbert Jackson. This Bounty collection is well on its way
towards completion for binding, but there is yet much to
do. I have not been able to complete my typewritten records
that contain every possible available fact in the sequence of
the story, in its incidents, its chronology, its personages, be-
ginning with the acquisition of the Bounty by the govern-
ment for its voyage, and thence coming down through 153
years to the present day when radio messages, some of which
I have listened to, come from and are sent to Pitcairn. I am
unable to foresee when these records will be complete, and
I have my doubts as to that day in the midst of all the work
I have to do, including the preparation for and the writing
of this autobiography. In the meantime I am continuing to
live with and myself form a part of the wonderful Bounty
story and everything that pertains to it.

The Bounty motion-picture that stirred my reminiscent
mind so overwhelmingly was unexpectedly truthful, roman-
tic and realistic, the essential details being shown and nar-
rated with vigor and plausibility. By it the story was brought
to the attention of many who had never heard of it, but it
is doubtful if more than one person in a hundred of all the
multitudes that witnessed it throughout the country were
aware that they were looking upon a representation of in-
cidents that really happened, and upon modernized por-
traitures of men and women who were once flesh and blood.

346 / Speak for Myself

It was announced immediately after the showing of the
Bounty picture that a sequel dealing with the Pitcairn's
Island portion of the story would be made; but if it was be-
gun it has never been finished.

Mr. Nordhoff and Mr. Hall ought to put their hands to
the helm again and go on with the story from the point
where they left it on Pitcairn's Island when John Adams
was relating the account of the exciting incidents during the
fateful years after the arrival of the mutineers and their
Tahitian companions. There still remains more than a cen-
tury of events after the death of John Adams, during the
custodianship of the Rev. Mr. Nobbs while they were in
temporary residence in Tahiti, and since the removal of the
entire community to Norfolk, with something of course
about the returned members of the families whose descend-
ants are now living on Pitcairn. In fact there should be
more than one more book about them; there should be two
or three.

Ql

What I Have Not Been

I HAVE SAID so MUCH about what I am and what I have been
that the time has come when I must say what I have not
been. I have not been a clubman, a churchgoer, a go-getter,
a joiner, an office seeker or holder; I do not want to belong
to any secret societies or boards of directors, or to any or-
ganization that I think may bring me prestige or influence,
whether fame or fortune. I do not want to be a factor in the
midst of mankind. I want to be left to myself; I prefer to
work alone. In short, I am an individualist, a lover of my
fellow men, but not of all of them. I prefer to pick and
choose my acquaintances, and not to have them thrust upon
me.

I have lived for thirty-five years in the Massachusetts town
of Arlington, about eight miles from Boston, and I have
never entered any of its churches of any denomination, ex-
cept twice, and then only as an attendant at funerals. They
were Baptist and Unitarian. I am a voter, but I have no am-
bition to be voted for as an incumbent of any office, from
selectman to pound keeper. I have never been drawn on a
jury, I am glad to say, and now I am not wanted for that
service, I am even more glad to say. I have neighbors, but I
am not obtrusively neighborly, and my visits to their houses
number less than a half-dozen annually. I seldom go out to

347

348 / Speak for Myself

dinner, although I like to dine with friends at Boston res-
taurants.

On the other hand, I like to have friends come to my
house to dinner with us, and that happens often. By that
expedient I save myself the trouble of travelling back and
forth between our homes. I rarely speak to a stranger for the
sake of scraping acquaintance, but I am glad to have a
stranger speak to me, especially if he is seeking information.
I despise what many like: automobile radios, rubber-heeled
shoes, low shoes, bifocal glasses, slang of all kinds, snowless
winters, comic strips, calendar reform, pacifism, weather re-
ports, the flagrant misuse of such words as "transpire" and
"replica," and the omission of the first two syllables of
"telephone."

Speaking of funerals, I never attend one if I can possibly
avoid it. Of course there is one that I shall be forced to go
to. I doubt if I have been to more than twenty in the progress
of my life, which is less than one in three years. They seem
to me to be unnecessary, and I know that many are based
upon hypocrisy. They are of no value to the dead, and of
little value to the living. Many who attend them do so be-
cause they will be considered unfriendly and discourteous.
Too often the services are sheer humbug, especially when the
clergyman eulogizes the character of a person of whom he
knows nothing. You may have heard the story of the man
who went to the funeral of a friend who was described from
the pulpit as a man of the most substantial and highest char-
acter. Suddenly he leaped from his seat and dashed out of
the room. "Why did you leave?" he was asked afterwards.
"Because I found out I must have gone to somebody else's
funeral, for it couldn't possibly be Charlie Jones who was
so highly praised by the minister. He wasn't that kind of
man, and I wouldn't have liked him if he had been."

My personal recollections of even the few funerals I at-
tended are vivid. I had a dear friend who was an actor, a

What I Have Not Been 349

most lovable man. He was a Bostonian by birth, Horace
Lewis by name, fifty years of age at the time of his death, and
I had come to know him when he was a member of the
Castle Square Theatre stock company. I knew also his entire
family his wife Portia Albee who had been a celebrity as a
child actress at the Boston Museum years before, his son
and two daughters. What did the preacher imply about him
at the service, even though he was speaking in a church of
the denomination to which Horace and his family belonged?
The best he could say of him was that he was a worthy man
in spite of the fact that he was an actor 1 Condescending,
wasn't it? One of the most monotonous funerals at which
I was present was held in memory of a fellow worker on the
Transcript, Jay B. Benton, who had been its city editor. It
was held in a church in the town where he had resided many
years, and it was considered essential to have three clergy-
men to speed him on his way. One of these was the pastor of
the church, another a member of the order to which my
friend belonged, and the third a former reporter on the
Transcript who had left journalism for the pulpit. The pas-
tor read interminably long passages from the Bible that I
should have enjoyed more had I remained at home and pe-
rused them in its quietude.

Is it any wonder that I do not like funerals? The best
sort of service is the impersonal one; and there are varieties
of the worst, especially when the deceased is portrayed as a
saint who is making his easy progress through the gates of
heaven. This reacts upon the clergyman, who seems to be
overconfident about what is happening in the other world.

Something I have not been is a clergyman, although I
have been accused of being a member of that profession.
Rarely, if ever, have I been taken for an actor. Possibly
there is good reason from my personal appearance to be con-
sidered as one or the other. In my maturer days I have been
addressed or saluted as a preacher so often that its repetition

350 I Speak for Myself

has become annoying, especially as I dislike to be taken for
something that I am not. In denominations there has been
no discrimination. The choice has been eclectic Episcopa-
lian, Roman Catholic, Baptist, Universalist, Congregation-
alist and Unitarian, these I remember, and unquestionably
there are others.

Out of deference and reverence, little boys take off their
hats to me, sometimes with the addition of the word "Fa-
ther." Men and women, some older than I, get up or motion
me to a seat when I am standing in a street car or a sub-
way train; I am offered discounts in stores, or asked if I am
"clerical"; and I am addressed as "Dr.," presumably of the
D.D. variety. One evening a young man sidled over to me
as we were seated in a sparsely filled car, and said, "I'm
afraid my breath is offensive to you, FatherI've been drink-
ing." An unnecessary confession, for I had been unaware of
his proximity. Occasionally my "fellow clergymen" stare at
me in passing as if they felt they must know me, or else they
bow to me as if I were a man of their cloth.

Even at funerals I am not immune. Entering the crema-
tory chapel at Forest Hills Cemetery one afternoon to at-
tend services over a friend, I was taken by the hand of the
undertaker, who evidently wanted to escort me up the aisle;
but I declined the honor and sat in a rear pew: I failed to
see the reason for this ceremony, but on my relating the in-
cident to my wife at home, she responded: "Why, don't you
know, he took you for the officiating clergyman!" In spite of
all this, I was content to remain an editor.

Some of My Associate Reviewers

OVER AND OVER I have encountered remarks implying that I,
and I alone, since I was literary editor of the Transcript,
wrote all, or substantially all, the book reviews in its pages.
This was a misunderstanding, and I always rebutted it, giv-
ing reasons for my denial. How could one person read the
hundred and more books we received each week, and also
write about them in an understanding and lucid manner?
It could not have been done by even a small corps of writers.
I needed assistance, and it was readily obtainable, for the
supply of reviewers always exceeds the demand. Scarcely a
day passed when I was not receiving a young man or woman
who asked me if I did not need another reviewer.

Did I need another? Not by any means. I tried to be hos-
pitable. I was certainly courteous, and sought to explain the
situation. Sometimes I was acquiescent, and sometimes not,
depending upon the personality of my visitor, and perhaps
upon my mood at the moment. It was often easy by merely
looking at and listening to an applicant to foresee that his
work would be impossible. I venture to say that not one in
ten of them returned, doubtless disheartened by my unreadi-
ness to accept their offer of services, or by my noncommittal
attitude.

The incentives of these applicants were variable. Some

351

352 / Speak for Myself

were college undergraduates anxious to gain experience and
perhaps prestige from published writing, and the large num-
ber of colleges in and around Boston furnished plenty of
them. My associates introduced some of them personally or
by letter; others had undoubtedly heard wild stories that I
needed more assistants; some needed to earn a little money
and went away disappointed that book reviewing is not gen-
erally remunerative; some said (there were many of these)
that they did not care if there were no financial result. I con-
fess that once in a while 1 may have deprived myself of the
aid of one who might have been a star reviewer. What hap-
pened was more the outcome of chance rather than of good
judgment.

I certainly acquired a helpful staff. Of course it was con-
stantly changing through the years. I should dread to count
the number of those who left me for no other reason than
that they left the world. I could not give to everyone exactly
the books he desired. You may ask if I did not regret parting
with books that I wanted to review and read myself. Cer-
tainly I did, but I could not help myself. That was one of
the drawbacks of the profession. It was my duty to put all
worth-while books through as quickly as possible.

To all these reviewers, as I summon their names from
my memory, I offer my gratitude and thanks, confessing
frankly that I could not have gone on with my work without
them, and that to them I attribute whatever measure of suc-
cess I may have achieved in my nearly forty years as head of
the Transcript department of book reviewing, and for the
popularity gained by the Book Section under my control.
At any rate, no literary editor of the Transcript ever served
so long as I, and none retired with a happier view of his
past. But though I was the editor, I was only one among
many reviewers, and I was willing to take all the blame for
anything that might have gone wrong, and to share the
credit with my assistants and associates.

Some of My Associate Reviewers 353

Let me mention a few names that in my regime appeared
frequently as signatures to reviews. During my first years,
none of the reviews was signed, even with initials. Then I
adopted the system of giving reviewers the credit of their
initials, and finally I printed their names at the head of all
the more important reviews. The order in which I set down
their names here, as they appear through the years from 1901
to 1938 has no significance. They are placed merely as they
enter my mind, sometimes with no forethought, and some-
times as memory recalls them while I strive to discover if
anybody who deserves a place is omitted.

Christopher Morley, whom I have mentioned elsewhere
at some length, wrote for me many entertaining essays and
special articles, among his reviews, at the beginning of his
rapidly ascending career soon after his return from Oxford.
Edmund Lester Pearson did The Librarian department once
a week for a longer time than I can remember, and so orig-
inal and humorous was he that a group of librarians sent us
a protest and asked us to replace him with a more practical
writer who would sacrifice an enlivening style for mere dry-
as-dust facts. We would not under any consideration deprive
our readers of his unique writing, and it was only his de-
cision to relieve himself of a burdensome task that forced us
to give him up. All this time he had been writing an occa-
sional review in which his whimsical humor was dominant,
and at the time of his death three years ago he was at the
height of his reputation as a chronicler and solver of mur-
der mysteries. For thirty years, George Henry Sargent, the
eminent and authoritative writer of The Bibliographer de-
partment, could be depended upon to have his weekly col-
umn ready in time, even in his last days when he was an in-
valid living in semiretirement on the old Sargent family
farm in New Hampshire. He was an able reviewer of books
of all kinds, as well as in his specialty of bibliography.

Always I had the aid of reviewers whose liking for books

354 I Speak for Myself

carried them into variable fields. Frank S. Ambrose was
most reliable as to the speed and quality of his work, and he
was notably fond of historical personalities and events to be
found in the byways of literature and biography; Sherwin
Lawrence Cook, who died some half-dozen years ago, liked
best to write about the stage and political history, and dur-
ing his last years was on the teaching staff of Emerson Col-
lege; Nathan Haskell Dole was indefatigable and volumi-
nous in his writing, with the rare faculty of knowing Russian
and other European languages and literatures.

These are not all, by any means. There was James Walter
Smith, who was my intimate friend from before my Harvard
days, a far-travelled journalist and magazine writer of ex-
ceptional capacity and resource who worked both in Eng-
land and in this country; later came his son, J. Fletcher
Smith, duplicating the ability of the father as writer and re-
viewer. Jean West Maury's scope was extensive, and she was
thoroughly versed in many subjects and eager to write upon
them; Louise Hubert Guyol was one of Edmund Pearson's
successors on The Librarian, one of her avocations being the
writing of stories for children; and Dorothea Lawrance
Mann, one of several Wellesley graduates on my staff, with
an amazing facility over a wide range of literature, old and
new.

Among the Radcliffe graduates who assisted me was Isa-
belle Wentworth Lawrence, as vivacious in her literary style
as she was in her personality, and Dorothy Foster Gilman,
who had travelled over three continents, and who for two
years wrote a semiweekly news column for the Transcript
entitled Bookstall Gossip that brought her into close con-
tact with publishers and their representatives. Mrs. Florence
Milner diversified her work as curator of the Farnsworth
Room in the Harvard Library, with travel, with reading and
the reviewing of as many worth-while books as I could give
her. In this list of my feminine reviewers stands Dr. Ger-

Some of My Associate Reviewers 355

trude R. B. Richards, conspicuous as a teacher, a writer and
a scholar whose specialty was research into the mysteries of
ancient Italian books and manuscripts, and who discussed
many books with a rare insight into their varied themes.
Olga Owens was my chief assistant reviewer during my last
two years as literary editor, and was of great help to me in
the manifold duties of my work. She remained after my de-
parture.

To begin this paragraph, I have in mind the name of Wil-
liam E. Harris, a teacher who was careful in his selection of
books, and remarkably thorough in his evaluation of them,
with an inclination at times to be censorious in his judg-
ments, which was far better than to be easy-going and fond
of needless praise. Another teacher-reviewer was Sigmund
Arnold Lavine, whom I had known since his infancy, and
whom I had watched grow up from small beginnings as a
reviewer of second-rate novels to a skilful student of his-
torical affairs, high-class fiction, economics and sociology;
Ralph Bergengren was a reviewer whose whimsicality made
everything he wrote entertaining, and who was even able to
write with extraordinary humor about such reference books
as the Dictionary, the Cumulative Book Index, the Book
Review Digest and Who's Who in America. It was he who
made the marvellous discovery that in one of these were
entries of two men whose names were Deadman and Liveing.

One of the most conspicuous among my reviewers was Ed-
mund Noble. He was long on the staff of the Boston Herald,
and his writing for the Transcript gave him the chance to
obtain books on history, biography, science, philosophy and
other subjects that he would not otherwise have been able
to procure. His work was extensive, and it continued to
within a few days of his death. Arthur Bernon Tourtellot
came in to see me for the first time with the news that he
had just returned from London, where he had been able to
listen to one of my radio talks by short wave. Soon there-

356 / Speak for Myself

after he began to write for me with an ease and facility that
revealed his facility to get out of books the best that was in
them.

And there were others in whose visits I took great pleasure.
William Fox made life agreeable for me with calls that diversi-
fied his days spent in a broker's office, and by reading and writ-
ing about books he selected with a care that showed he did not
want to take from my shelves a book simply because it was a
book. We have kept up our acquaintance since I left, and so
also have Thomas S. Lester and myself. He too liked to have a
talk with me when he took his noon hour off from a business
house with which he was connected, and his choice of books
for review was always judicious. Frances Bartlett in spite of
her long invalidism spent much of her spare time during her
last few years in reading new books and writing some of the
most careful reviews that came into my hands. She became a
welcome guest at our home.

Although he was one of the earliest of my associates in
point of time, William Stanley Braithwaite appears some-
what belatedly in this chapter. He was the originator and
compiler of the "Anthology of Magazine Verse" which ap-
peared annually in the Transcript in abridged form, and
later in a series of volumes that were continued for about
ten years; his reviews of books of verse need no praise. After
him must be set Edward J. O'Brien, not as a reviewer, but
as the founder of the Best Short Stories of the Year. It was
suggested by me, and I did not foresee that it would be the
beginning of a long series of annual articles in the Tran-
script and the progenitor of volumes that have continued for
twenty-five years. Mr. Braithwaite has left Boston to become
a teacher in a southern college, and Mr. O'Brien long ago
set up his permanent residence in England, where he com-
bines his walks amid Oxford scenes with the reading of an
incalculable number of short stories.

Again I return to the Transcript staff for the name of an-

Some of My Associate Reviewers 357

other reviewer Karl Schriftgiesser who came to us from an
office boy's job on the Boston Post, and then worked upward
in steadily advancing capacities for ten years or so, when he
left us for other newspaper fields, first to go to the Washing-
ton Post, and then in January, 1937, to the New York Times,
where he is now, in the good company of several other for-
mer Transcript men, among them Brooks Atkinson, Henry
R. Ilsley, W. A. MacDonald, and Wallace M. Powers. An-
other former Boston newspaper man, Olin Downes, is also
on the Times as its music editor. Of Karl's ability I cannot
speak too highly. Besides contributing to the Book Section,
he substituted for me several summers when I was away on
my vacation. My recollections of him have a touch of amuse-
ment because of the fact that he would occasionally come to
me with a request for the meaning of a German word which,
because of his name, if for no other reason, he might be
supposed to know better than I.

From the composition room came frequently Julius Adel-
berg to look over the new books with an appraising eye. He
was most exigent in his choice, but he discovered one once
in a while that satisfied him, and would do the review of it
with sound judgment. A number of our workers in all de-
partments were members of the bar, and he was one of them.
Also to be recalled are a trio of careful ministerial reviewers
Thomas C. Richards, Frank W. Collier and Frederick B.
Noyes. I enjoyed the visits of Marion L. Starkey, to whom I
would send books for review when she was away from
Boston teaching at the Hampton Institute in Virginia. She
was fond of travelling, as far westward as the Pacific coast,
and when she returned one summer from an eastward jour-
ney into Russia, she came in with her arm in a sling as a
result of an accident while swimming in the Black Sea.

During the last phase of my Transcript service, John
Holmes, poet and teacher at Tufts College, was an acquisi-
tion to the staff, and of distinct aid to me in his opinions

358 I Speak for Myself

upon poetry and poets. William H. Clark was diligent in
writing brief reviews ranging from fiction to erudite scien-
tific books; Fred C. Green took great pleasure in reviewing
books about the sea and ships; Lewis E. Stoyle enjoyed good
fiction, but his specialty was photography, in which he was
an exceptionally expert practitioner; Lewis L. Martinson
and Oliver Hewitt were always welcome; Margaret Paige
Hazen never took a book without being sure she could mas-
ter its contents; and Gertrude Bayley and Florence E. Whit-
tier were notable for the conscientious care with which they
read and wrote.

With only two or three exceptions, none of these reviewers
was considered worth retaining on the book reviewing staff
when I left. Most of them did not have any lasting regrets,
and neither had I. They were a trained corps in the art of
reviewing, and they knew and wrote about books both old
and new with all the skill that comes of long study and prac-
tice. I am sure they will long be remembered in these days
when their names have vanished from the pages of the
Transcript Book Section.

One other remains to be spoken of, with a side glance at
a few of my intimate friends who were with me well on
into the fortieth decade of the twentieth century. Forrest
P. Hull was long a valued and versatile member of the
Transcript reportorial staff. He was a Yankee born and bred.
His birth, his home and his death were all in the little
Massachusetts town of Georgetown up near the New Hamp-
shire line, not far from Haverhill. He would go there almost
daily from Boston, where he worked many years, and where
he kept a lodging for occasional occupancy. He rarely went
to the theatre, and seldom read a work of fiction, although
he surprised me once in a while by revealing acquaintance
with a recent popular novel. He was active in the local affairs
of his home town, being president of its savings bank, one
of the officials of its public library, and the author of its

Some of My Associate Reviewers 359

published history. He was the Transcript's City Hall repre-
sentative; he also specialized in hotel news; and he wrote
the reports of the Lowell Institute lectures that are a feature
of the cultural life of Boston. He took great pride in these,
and especially in the fact that a condition of the charter of
the institution was that its lectures should always be adver-
tised in the Transcript, and in no other Boston newspaper.

Forrest Hull's world was wide, in spite of the local nature
of his newspaper work, and he was enthusiastic about his
special interests. He was fond of books on government and
municipal affairs, and his sudden death about a year ago was
a blow to all his friends, many of whom were, like himself,
no longer on the paper. A week or two after being forced to
leave us, he was appointed editor of the City Record, the
official organ of the Boston municipal government, and in
that office he had additional duties to perform.

I have every good reason to remember him with affection.
He was one of a small group of Transcript workers who
dined together once a month or so at a Boston restaurant,
and who met and talked with one another almost every day.
This group consisted, in addition to Forrest and myself, of
Charles E. Alexander, society editor of the paper for many
years, who was always our host in his apartment on Marl-
borough Street at the preliminary gatherings on the eve-
nings of our regular dinners; John Henry Wilson, whose
specialty on the staff was obituaries and church affairs; and
Frank C. Bowker, its city editor, who died untimely in his
fiftieth year a dozen years ago. In later years we were joined
by Charles F. Marden, long-time automobile editor of the
Transcript; and we had with us occasional guests from
among our fellow workers. Frank Bowker was the youngest
of us, and with Forrest Hull's leaving the second youngest
was removed. It is worth noting that the span of the ages be-
tween the oldest and the youngest was eighteen years.

When word came to Forrest in September, 1938, that I

360 I Speak for Myself

too was to join him in the ranks of the Transcript departed,
he telephoned me immediately that he had heard the news,
and that whenever I was in Boston I was to make my head-
quarters in his office in the City Hall, using his telephone,
his typewriter and everything within its walls as if they were
mine. That hospitality has been continued by his associate
and successor, Joshua H. Jones, than whom I could ask for
no more cordial and helpful friend. As I sit there in his
office he seems indeed to be a friend of everybody, especially
of the many visitors who come to him for practical advice
and assistance. Within the past year or so I have visited him
once a week, always sure of a hearty welcome and many
minutes of conversation on what seem to be all subjects
within the range of the human mind.

93

Letters and Richard Mansfield

As i NEAR THE END, and look back over the past as I have
recorded it, my readers have doubtless seen that not the least
interesting, and sometimes the most exciting, event in my
daily work was the receipt of my mail, which came not long
after my arrival in the early morning, and continued also at
regular intervals throughout the day. With the mail came a
realization of my widespread contacts with those w r ho write
and those who read, as well as with the publishers without
whom we should have no books. Through all my years, my
mail was one of the most absorbing features of my work.
Among other things, it was made up of the reactions of
Transcript readers towards me.

Sometimes my letters were personal, sometimes they were
impersonal, sometimes they were friendly, sometimes they
were unfriendly, sometimes they were mild and genial, and
sometimes they were vehement and antagonistic. But always
they were welcome. Whatever their nature, they proved that
the Transcript had plenty of readers who were so interested
in what they read that they were impelled to write about it.
I was responsible for everything that went into my pages,
and I was willing to take whatever blame was justly due me
for the judgment of others, gladly receiving now and then a
word of praise for the alert editorial hand I strove to wield

361

362 / Speak for Myself

over the assignment of books for review, over the editing of
the reviews, and over the arrangement, technically known as
the "make-up/' of my pages.

Many letters received during more than forty years were
read and preserved, and many others were also read, but not
thought important enough to retain for re-reading. Had I
foreseen the writing of this book, I might have saved more
of them, in order that they might fulfill its purpose more
completely. In any event I still have plenty. Some have al-
ready been presented to my readers where they seemed to fit
in best; others will now be set down here in more or less
logical sequence. In the first of these letters I am going back
to the days when I was dramatic editor of the Transcript.

It was written by Richard Mansfield when he was at the
height of his reputation, not long after he had called spe-
cial attention to himself as the first producer in this coun-
try of a Bernard Shaw play "Arms and the Man," followed
by "The Devil's Disciple/' His new play for that season was
"The First Violin," a dramatization of Jessie Fothergill's
novel of the same title made especially for him, but which
did not remain long in his repertory. I saw its opening per-
formance at the Hollis Street Theatre, wrote a review of it
which appeared in the Transcript the following day; and ap-
parently he sat down to write the letter immediately after
reading it.

The author of "The First Violin" was an Englishwoman
of some popularity as a novelist in the seventies and eighties,
and her story dealt rather sentimentally with musical life in
Germany, the principal figure, played by Mr. Mansfield, be-
ing the leader of an orchestra in Diisseldorf. The novel had
been published some twenty years previously, in 1877, in the
conventional English three-volume form, and was one of
Miss Fothergill's dozen or so works of fiction that brought
her a temporary renown.

Mr. Mansfield had never met me, which accounts for the

Letters and Richard Mansfield 363

formality of his salutation. The envelope containing the let-
ter was addressed to me by name, although the review had
not been signed.

PARKER HOUSE,
April 22, 1898
MY DEAR SIR

I am greatly obliged to you for your very wholesome letter. If
you have nothing better to do please join me at supper Saturday
after the play & I will explain fully to you many things. The con-
sensus of opinion on the part of the Boston press was somewhat
remarkable and the more puzzling that it has been so diametri-
cally opposed to the evident opinion of the public. "The First
Violin," when it closes on Saturday evening, will have played at
the fag end of the season to the extraordinary figure of over
$12,000 in one week!

The fact is the Public likes to be entertained it does not care
for problem plays & the old song always tells. I hope to have the
pleasure of seeing you on Saturday.

RICHARD MANSFIELD

I do not recall what my "very wholesome letter" was
about, but it must have been in answer to a letter from him
which unfortunately has disappeared. I accepted his invita-
tion, joined him at midnight, and found at the Parker House
a small gathering that included Arthur Forrest, his leading
man, A. M. Palmer, his manager, formerly a prominent in-
fluential theatre manager in New York, and E. H. Clement,
then editor in chief of the Transcript. I had an enjoyable
time there, and was glad to reach my home at such an un-
godly hour, for me, as three o'clock in the morning. I was
not accustomed to being out so late, despite the fact that
newspaper men are supposed to be night-birds.

I am not regretful to say that I have participated in few
such midnight occasions. The only other I rememberand
my memory of these affairs is good was a midnight supper
of about twenty guests at the Hotel Touraine given to
Frances Starr by David Belasco at the time of her debut in

364 / Speak for Myself

"The Rose of the Rancho." In the party was Jane Cowl,
then unknown to fame, and acting only a minor role in the
new drama. From that event I arrived home late, again at
about three o'clock in the morning.

In this connection, it seems incumbent on me to say a
few words about Richard Mansfield as an actor. I fear he is
unknown to the present generation of playgoers, and little
more than a memory to some of their elders. He is, how-
ever, much more than a memory to me and to many others
who were going to the theatre in those days. As I look at
him through the veil of the years, he is not what William
Winter was wont to call a shadow of the stage, but a lifelike
and enduring figure. His intellectual and physical stature
grows upon me as remembrance revivifies him. I saw him
more than once act Baron Chevrial in "A Parisian Romance"
and Beau Brummel in Clyde Fitch's play on successive eve-
nings, and I marvelled then as I marvel now in recollection
at the skill it may have been genius with which he differ-
entiated them and made them two absolutely opposed in-
dividualities. There were few traces of the one in the other,
and what is more there were few traces of Richard Mans-
field. It was real acting and genuine character, and in each
case he revealed the spirit of the man he was acting. Memory
brings him forth in other parts, but these dominate them all.

Some Last Letters

IN VIEW OF LATER EVENTS in American literary and political
history, the following letter, dated from 201 West Twenty-
eighth Street, New York, December 20, 1901, has a peculiar
and prophetic interest. It came addressed to the Transcript,
and since it pertained to my department, it was turned over
to me.

DEAR SIR:

I beg to introduce myself as the author of "King Midas," a
romance just published by Funk 8c Wagnalls Company. I enclose a
few extracts from letters and from the first press notices I have
received. I desire to offer my services, in case you should find
them available, as a reviewer of fiction, a subject of which I have
made a study. I am a college graduate, and have done four years
post graduate work in literature and philosophy at Columbia;
I read French, German and Italian fluently, and I know the mod-
ern literary field with some thoroughness. I am authorized by
Professor Brander Matthews to state that he will recommend me
to anyone who applies to him that I have done much of my work
under his direction, have shown myself capable and diligent, and
that he considers me competent for the work in question.

Respectfully,

UPTON SINCLAIR

Mr. Sinclair did not long confine his literary work to book
reviews, but proceeded to write many books for others to

365

366 / Speak for Myself

review. After the publication of "The Jungle" in 1906, espe-
cially aided by the publicity given to it by Theodore Roose-
velt, then president of the United States, he rose in reputa-
tion as author and political worker, and quite recently he
has added to his celebrity by his activities in California, of
which state he has long been a resident. His interests have
been varied, he is energetic in pursuit of any political or so-
cial cause that he has taken to his heart, his points of opposi-
tion or attack cover a wide field, and include such matters as
the American systems of education and our schools, high
finance, labor conditions, oil, poverty and the depression. He
has written novels, short stories, plays and essays on eco-
nomics, social and political problems. Wherever there is
what he thinks is a wrong to be righted, he makes it his
target with persistent energy and vehemence.

I have had in my possession for a long time a short and
pertinent letter from W. J. Locke, whose sparkling tales
added to the gaiety of at least two nations of novel readers
over a period of more than thirty years. I therefore wrote to
his widow (he died in 1930) for permission to give this
letter a place in these pages. She responded cordially, and
here it is:

CORNER HALL
HEMEL HEMPSTEAD, HERTS
4th September, 1918
DEAR SIR

I deserve your paragraph's humorous censure on "The Cloud,"
but Tom Hood did write "The Last Man," the concluding lines
of which are

For there is not another man alive
In the world to pull our legs.

The Tom Campbell quip is therefore a "dud."

Yours faithfully,

W. J. LOCKE

Some Last Letters 367

The cause of this letter was a paragraph I wrote for the
Transcript in which I reprimanded Mr. Locke for what I
thought was the attribution, in one of his books, of two
poems to the wrong authors. In one case I was right, and in
the other I was wrong, for I knew that Thomas Campbell
did write a poem entitled "The Last Man/' but I had never
seen the other one of the same name by Thomas Hood, the
first being very serious and the other comic. Of course I
was glad to be set aright, especially in such a genial manner.
It is to be hoped that Mr. Locke's "The Beloved Vagabond,"
"The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne," "The Glory of Clemen-
tina," and all his other novels, and also his volumes of short
stories, are still enjoyed in these modern days.

* # *

At intervals I would receive a letter from Amy Lowell,
and once in a while she was so gracious as to send me an in-
scribed copy of one of her books. Her letters were very prac-
tical, and perhaps the best for me to select is this in answer
to my request that she write a first-page Book Section article
for the Transcript. When writing a letter on a professional
matter she generally used letter-sheet stationery upon which
appeared in the upper left-hand corner these formal printed
words: "Miss A. Lowell, 70 Heath Street, Brookline." This
came to me in typewriting, dated May 4, 1923:

MY DEAR MR. EDGETT:

I wish I could say yes to your request that I write one of the
leading articles for the Transcript book page in the near future.
Unfortunately I have had to refuse to write any articles of any
kind until I finish my life of Keats, at which I am working at
forced speed, as the publishers are anxious to publish it as soon
as possible. I am very sorry, as I should like to write an article
for you very much, but as I have steadily refused to write any-
thing for the "Post," "Times," or the "International Review," for
all of which I am an irregular but steady contributor, I am afraid
the editors of these papers would not think me particularly loyal

368 / Speak for Myself

to them if I were to write for the "Transcript" when I distinctly
told them I could do nothing until my book was done.

If you will allow me, I will let you know some time when I
shall be able to write such an article, and you will let me know if
it is at a moment when it would be acceptable to you.

Very sincerely yours,

AMY LOWELL

Two years after the writing of this letter, Miss Lowell
died, and the time therefore never came when she was "able
to write such an article" for the Transcript.

Of all the authors whose books I have reviewed, I think
none was so punctilious as Gamaliel Bradford in his desire
to send its writer a letter of acknowledgment. I have many
of these letters from him in my collection, but instead of
printing one here, I am presenting one that deals with his
ambitions as a writer of plays, which he never fulfilled. He
wrote me from his residence in Wellesley Hills, under date
of August 9, 1908:

DEAR MR. EDGETT:

I was very much interested in your study of Bronson Howard
which shows, what of course I had felt before, your uncompromis-
ing opposition to the drama of trickery shall I call it so? and be-
lief in the drama of life, which regards the laws of dramatic art,
essential as they are, as only means to an end.

I wonder if you would be willing to read, at your leisure, a
play which I finished a few months ago. It is a simple, direct
study of contemporary life, made as clearly and directly dramatic
as I know how to make it, but I hope not stagey. I am negotiating
for production in New York through one of the dramatic bu-
reaus; but I am not hopeful. I have too little personal relations
with theatrical people and besides the play is too quiet, not vio-
lent enough, I fear, for the bonbon girl. But I should very much
like to have your impression of it from your practical experience.

If you feel that you can spare the time, I will send in a copy.

Some Last Letters 369

I have one to spare and you can take just as much time as you
please.

Very truly yours,

GAMALIEL BRADFORD, JR.

The Bronson Howard "study" which appealed to him was
an article of about two columns in length that I wrote for
the Transcript immediately after the death of that popular
but now forgotten playwright. As will be seen from Mr.
Bradford's letter, my appraisal of Bronson Howard's work
for the stage which includes such plays as "The Banker's
Daughter," "Young Mrs. Winthrop," "The Henrietta,"
"Shenandoah," and "Aristocracy" was not enthusiastic, and
now he is simply representative of an outworn aspect of the
American drama. To that extent they reveal the character-
istic quality of the plays of their day, and some of them may
be found printed in more than one anthology.

Of Mr. Bradford's manuscript play, which he sent me to
read, I regret to say that I have no remembrance, although I
think that it must have been over the heads of the American
public of the first decade of the twentieth century. Un-
doubtedly his forebodings of its reception by the dramatic
agents who were often the intermediaries between the play-
wrights and the theatrical managers were well founded. It is
fortunate that Mr. Bradford was forced to renounce his am-
bition to become an acted dramatist, for instead he gained
great renown as an analyst of character in his psychographic
essays on distinctive men and women of more than one coun-
try and one era.

During the years when he was writing the Librarian col-
umns weekly for the Transcript, I was in constant corre-
spondence with Edmund Pearson, and it was a lively experi-
ence to receive and mull over his clever letters. I have kept
all of them carefully, and they fill a large drawer in one of

370 / Speak for Myself

my most precious cabinets. Here is one that reveals the
difficulties under which he wrote while he was in the service
of his country getting ready to go to war. He was not sent
abroad, for his duties were to stay at home as "personnel
officer," a position that compelled him to select others to be
sent while he remained in a place of safety. Here is Pearson's
letter:

May 2, 1917
DEAR MR. EDGETT,

Since I wrote you I have passed the physical and other exam-
ination here, and have been recommended for the three months'
camp at Plattsburg, beginning May 14. I may not know, however,
until May 8, whether I have finally been accepted for it.

You can certainly count on copy from me for the next two or
three weeks, and plenty of advance warning if I have to drop the
work. I will see what I can do by way of following your sugges-
tion as to a lot of copy to be used from time to time, with an oc-
casional contribution from me whenever possible, and just as
much original stuff as I can send, that I will certainly work for.
I did have a deuce of a time of it toward the end of the camp last
summer, writing on my rifle-stock, one day, sitting in a leaky
wood-shed during a halt on the hike, and the object of popular
derision, as the "war correspondent." The difficulties of finding
a place to write where people will not continually fall over your
legs are stupendous.

Perhaps you had better begin the war-allowance of about a
column a week, pretty soon.

Yours sincerely,

E. L. PEARSON

As it turned out, Pearson was able to continue the Li-
brarian column throughout his war service, and he re-
mained with us for some time after the end of the conflict,
until he became so immersed in his researches into mur-
ders and their mysteries that he decided to give his entire
time to them, becoming the author of "Studies in Murder,"

Some Last Letters 371

"Murder at Smutty Nose/' the edited and annotated records
of the Lizzie Borden Case, and similar books.

Among the numerous letters I have received from Laura
E. Richards is this pertinent one which came to me from the
home in Maine where she has lived all these many years.
Since its writing she has passed her ninetieth birthday.

GARDINER,
Dec. 5, 1932
DEAR MR. EDGETT,

How delightful of you to say such pleasant things about "Tirra
Lirra" in your Friday talk. And actually to read "Araby" to your
great audience! I am naturally greatly pleased and "set up."

Some time I'll sing it to you; it sang itself into being with a
rather quaint little tune, as many of my jingles do; that is why
they jingle!

I had hoped greatly to see you when I was in Boston last
month; but alas! a wandering germ caught me by the throat and
put an end to all my pleasant plans. Better luck next time! With
cordial thanks for your kind and friendly words, believe me al-
ways, dear Mr. Edgett,

Faithfully yours,

LAURA E. RICHARDS.

Ps.

I read with deep interest your account of Michael Fairless.
Since you do not confine your talks to books of the moment, I
think I must send you my daughter Rosalind's "Northern Coun-
tryside." Not new at all; the second edition came out several years
ago. The first edition was hailed with such delight by Mr. How-
ells, Theodore Roosevelt and others that I just think it has en-
during qualities. I should be very happy if you felt some time like
saying a word of it.

"Rosalind," said Mr. Sanborn to me once, his long forefinger
extended you remember how? "has a certain literary quality
which you do not possess!"

It is perfectly true!

And what do I hear you say about "the woman's postscript?"

372 / Speak for Myself

Did I respond to Mrs. Richards's appeal about her daugh-
ter's book? I certainly did, especially as I found it filled with
the scenic beauties and atmosphere of our own corner of
New England. "It is a land," I said to my radio audience,
"that may be compared to no other region, and it is really
like no other region. It is literally the New England to which
our fathers came in order to found what may now truth-
fully be said, without any attempt at blatant patriotism, to
be the greatest nation in the world, second to none other,
not even to its great fatherland." And that is so today, in
spite of what has happened here during the last eight years.
After quoting a brief passage from Miss Richards's book, I
said of it that "this is the New England with which so many
of us are familiar and which we know and understand thor-
oughly. 'A Northern Countryside* is an alluring title, and
'A Northern Countryside' is an alluring book." After all, it
has always been to me invariably a great satisfaction to
praise honestly a worthy book, its author and, in this in-
stance especially, its author's mother.

The choice of the following letter from my correspond-
ence with Professor George C. D. Odell is made especially
because it emphasizes the extent of his endeavors to make
his "Annals of the New York Stage" a complete record, and
also because it gives his estimate of the value of pictures and
an unabridged index. In its eleventh volume, the number of
its pictures is 352 and the index pages are 104. Ever since
the publication of its first volume in 1927, I have watched
its progress with unabated interest, marvelling at the en-
thusiasm with which its chronicle has been marching along
through the years. It begins at the outset with the infancy
of the American stage, and now in its eleventh volume it
reaches the year 1882. There is more than half a century to
come as it continues its approach to the stage of today and

Some Last Letters 373

tomorrow. This letter reveals its writer's thoroughness and
unflagging courage:

HOTEL SEYMOUR
50 WEST 45TH ST., NEW YORK

May 10, 1937
MY DEAR MR. EDGETT,

I cannot tell you how highly I appreciate your kindness in send-
ing me your very favorable review of the ninth volume of my
Annals. I had not yet seen the review, and I naturally prized it
as coming from its author.

I was especially pleased with your praise of the pictures and
the index. The work on both was excruciating, but I feel that in
such a book only the man who does the writing can successfully
carry on the drudgery involved in the mechanical accompani-
ment of the printing. The things that especially hamper me now
are the variety theatres and the German activities; they take up
so much room and threaten ultimately to submerge the record.
Yet I feel they must go in the story for that small group of sup-
posititious inquirers who may be looking for just those items.
With renewed thanks for all your kindness, I am, as ever,

Very sincerely yours,

GEORGE C. D. ODELL

The entire work is a masterpiece of research and writing,
for it is something more than a mere series of lists of per-
sons, plays, theatres and productions. It is as good enter-
tainment in its reading as it is effective as a chronicle, espe-
cially as Professor Odell makes it a significant part of the
social history of the country as a whole.

Epilogue

IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE that at last I am about to give the signal
for the fall of the curtain on the last scene of this drama of
my life. I feel sure I am not exaggerating when I say that
from act to act my stage has been filled with events and
people, although I hope it has not seemed overcrowded as
my readers have looked upon it. As I take a glance back-
ward, I see more of what I have omitted than of what I have
included. If I began to relate my story again, it could be
made much longer and fuller, but I should not want to do
that. It is sufficient unto the days and years it compasses.

When I began writing this chronicle, my wife and I were
living in an old house which stands on grounds of about
three quarters of an acre at 200 Pleasant Street, Arlington,
and our years there had begun on June 2, 1908. Now we are
living in a second-story apartment at 135 Pleasant Street in
the same town, only about a quarter of a mile away. We de-
cided quite suddenly upon this change not long after I had
come to life following a fainting spell which left me uncon-
scious for less than an hour, although the doctor told me I
must stay in bed all day and possibly longer.

He also told me that I must change my hours of eating,
and have my dinner at noon instead of at night. I tried this
expedient two days, and no longer, for life would not be
worth living to me to continue such an objectionable dietary

374

Epilogue 375

habit. This is the way in which I have always obeyed a
physician's order, but I have survived in spite of, and per-
haps because of, my frequent rebellions. I did obey him,
however, when I was told that I must do no more outdoor
work, such as digging and hoeing in the garden, pushing a
lawn mower or wielding a snow shovel. This conduct was
not so much a duty to my physician. It was because I was
weary of the physical labor of which I had had an abundance
for more than thirty years.

We thereupon held a family conference that is, my wife
and I held it, for she and I are our entire family, and we de-
cided that we ought to change our mode of living, and set-
tle in smaller quarters that would relieve us of the care and
trouble of managing a large house and its outdoor surround-
ings. We called in a real estate agent, set our problem before
him, and the place was miraculously sold in exactly two
weeks. In the meantime we had had our eyes on a near-by
apartment, leased it immediately, and moved on the 2ist
of November, and there we are, after a judicious disposal of
a vast quantity of superfluous household things that had
accumulated for forty years. They had to be given away, for
they could not be sold.

The apartment into which we moved is a large one, we
are glad to say, and we are enjoying our new life as if we
had been there fifty years instead of less than a year. There
the greater part of this book has been written. Our cares are
riot over, and never will be, but many of them are dreams of
the past, and we go and come as we please, happy indeed
that we had the courage and common sense to move when
we could both move together.

Our future and our retrospect are now ours to command.
My parting words are not my own words, but are the words
of Shakspeare:

Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither.

Index

Abbot, Mrs. John C., 193

Actors and Editors, 159-162

Adams, Franklin P., 321

Adams, John, 343, 344

Addison, Joseph, 258

Adelberg, Julius, 357

Adrea, 130

Advertising, 45, 46, 169

Ainsworth, W. Harrison, 279

Aldrich, Mildred, 250-252

Alexander, Charles E., 296, 3 -,9

Alger, Horatio, 26, 43, 306

Allen, Fred, 106

Allen, J. Weston, 193

Allen, Mrs. J. Weston, 193

Allen, Viola, 180

All This, and Heaven Too, 324. 325

Amateur Theatricals, 225

Ambrose, Frank S., 226, 354

American Museum of Natural Histoi\ ,

344

Ames, Winthrop, 151, 164, 163
Animosities, 334-339
Annajanska, 187
Annals of the N. Y. Singe, 372
Anniversaries, 227
Apthorp, William F. f 102, 105
Archer, William, 178
Are You a Mason? 175
Arlington, Mass., 4, 70, 114, 119, 302

303. 34 3 6 ' 37 347. 3J 8 . 374- 375
Arliss, George, 133
Arms and the Man, 184
Arthur, Chester A., 17
Askin, Harry, 160, 161
Astronomy, 54

Atkinson, Brooks, 357

Atlantic Monthly, 160, 306, 308, 340

Auburn, N. Y., 215

Auburndale, Mass., 187

Australia, 344

Autobiography of a Breadwinner,

Baker, Professor George P., 62

Baker Co., Walter H., 250, 332

Ballant>ne, R. M., 261

Banner of Light, 35

Baptists, 27, 29, 41, 42, 239

Baiker, Mar\ E. A , 168

Barrett, Lawrence, 201, 215

Barrie, J. M., 259

Barren, Charles, 28

Bartlett, Frances, 355

Bates, Blanche, 128, 129, 132

Bates, Mrs. F. M., 128

Bath, Maine, 215

Bay State Puzzler, 24, 25

Ba>le\, Gertrude. 358

Belasco, Da\id, i\, 98, 122-133, 159-

177.363.364
Belcher, Lady. 342, 345
Bell in Hand, The, 211,212.225, 226
Ben Hur, 139, 146
Bennett, Arnold, ix, 281-283
Benrimo, J. Harry, 133
Benson, Arthur C., 259-260
Benton, Jay B., 331, 349
Beresford, J. D., 320, 321
Bergengren, Ralph, 357
Bible, 31.39,40. M5
Bibliographer, The, 353

377

Index

Bickford, Charles, 177

Bishop's Rock, 113

Black Crook, The, 155

Blaine, James G., 17

Bligh, Capt. William, 340, 346

Boer War, 112

Book Publishing, 293-295

Book Reviewing, 253-257, 293-295,

35 -36

Bookstall Gossip, 354
Boos, Dr. William F., 50
Booth, Edwin, 74, 105, 132, 201, 224,

248, 249, 250
Boston, viii, 1-8, 35-38, 70, 73, 130,

134, 198, 275
Boston Beacon, 95
Boston Budget, 160
Boston Churches, 36-38
Boston City Hall, 359, 360
Boston, Great Fire, 107
Boston Herald, 20, 101, 102, 251, 355
Boston Home Journal, 251
Boston Journal, 20, 95-97, 102, 251
Boston Museum, 27, 28, 104, 179, 201,

205, 247, 349

Boston Opera House, 1 80
Boston Post, 72, 102, 357
Boston Public Library, 34-37
Boston Symphony Orchestra, 102
Boston Theatre, 155
Boston Transcript, viii, ix, 24, 44, 46,

60, 74, 81, 95, 96-110, 134-158, 163,

219-221, 228, 246, 296, 310, 318, 324;

Accidents, 135; Book Section, 136,

137; Centenary, 139-141; Pensions,

135

Boston University, 292
Boucicault, Dion, 279
Bounty, 340-345
Bowker, Frank C., 359
Braddon, M. E., 279
Bradford, Gamaliel, 368, 369
Braithwaite, William Stanley, 356
Briggs, Prof. Le Baron R., 49, 62, 86
Bromfield, Louis, 323, 324
Brown, Alice, 326
Brown, Frank Chouteau, 165
Brown, Mildred F., 168
Bruning, Albert, 133
Bryan, William J. f 238

Bryant, William E., 97, 98
Bucknell, Olive S., 168
Butler, Samuel, 276
Buxton, Frank W., 81

Caine, Derwent Hall, 176

Caine, Hall, 176, 179

Cambridge, Mass., 4, 5, 308, 309

Cambridge Chronicle, 95

Cambridge High School, 43

Cambridge Public Library, 43

Campbell, Thomas, 366

Carleton, W. P., 177

Carnegie Music Hall, 127

Carter, Mrs. Leslie, 122, 130, 177

Cassell&Co., 111

Castle Square Theatre, Boston, 105,

160-178,319

Castlemon, Harry, 26, 43, 306
Cats, 245-246
Cayvan, Georgia, 215
Chamberlin, Joseph E., 103
Channing, Prof. Edward, 90
Chase, Frank E., 332
Chicago, 275

Child, Prof. Francis J., 62, 64, 84, 87
Child Actors, 125
Chinese Puzzle, The, 183
Choate, Robert, 308
Christian, Fletcher, 340, 346
Christian, The, 176
Christian Leader, The, 35, 244, 245
Christian Register, The, 35
Christian Science, 183
Christian Science Monitor, 78
Christianity, 30, 39, 40, 43, 347-350
Churchill, Winston, 198
Civil War, 18, 19, 242, 243, 246
Clapp, John Bouv, 219, 220, 314
Clapp, William W., 219
Clark, Frank A., 141
Clark, George E., 158, 167
Clark, Margaret, 168
Clark, William H., 358
Clarke, Annie, 28
Classics, 51
Claus, Henry T., 101
Clement, Edward H., 97, 98, 100, 101,

363
Clergymen, 349, 350

Index

379

Clive,E.E., 178, 186

Collier, Rev. Frank W., 357

Collins, Wilkie, 271, 278

Colonial Theatre, Boston, 34, 59

Colton, Charles A., 140

Columbia Broadcasting System, 230

Comic Opera, 167

Conrad, Joseph, ix, 261-264

Constitution, United States, 22

Constitutional Union Party, 238

Coogler, J. Gordon, 328

Cook, Charles E., 122, 128

Cook, Sherwin L., 354

Coolidge, Calvin, 237, 238

Copeland, Prof. Charles T., ix, 62, 63,

72-81, 224

Copley Plaza Hotel, Boston, 308
Copley Theatre, 161, 169-196
Costermongers, 120
Court Procedure, 180, 181
Covent Garden, London, 120
Cowl, Jane, 364
Craig, Ben, 167
Craig, John, ix, 161-178, 332
Crane, William H., 160, 216
Crisis, The, 198
Crosman, Henrietta, 166
Cross, Milton J., 239
Cudjo's Cave, 306
Cushman, Charlotte, 248
Cutler, John, 76, 214, 228

Dairymaids, Hymn to the, 153
Daly, Augustin, 104, 170
Dana, Richard H., 218
Darius Green and His Flying Ma-
chine, 307

Darling of the Gods, The, 132, 133
Dartmoor, 269, 270
Daudet, Alphonse, 60
Davenport, Edward L., 203, 220, 224
Davenport, Fanny, 202, 203
Davenport, Iowa, 124
Deland, Lorin F., 164, 165
Deland, Margaret, 155, 164
De Mille, Henry C., 131
Democratic Party, 18, 22, 238
Desk, 150, 151
Detroit, 210
DeWolfe & Fiske Co., 78

Dickens, Charles, ix, 76, 231, 256, 269
Dictionary of American Biography,

214-218

Dieffenbach, Dr. Albert C., 318, 326
Dixon, Rev. Thomas, Jr., 31
Dobbin, William, 199
Dole, Nathan Haskell, 354
Doran Co., George H., 320-321
Dorchester, Mass., 5
Doubleday, Frank Nelson, 308
Downes, Olin, 357
Downes, William Howe, 102
Doyle, A. Conan, 271, 279
Drew, John, 332
Drury Lane, 120

Dudley St. Baptist Church, 30, 31
Dunlap, William, 220
Dunlap Society, 220
Durant, William, 141
Dutton, Henry W., 108
Duvall, Rankin, 132, 133
Dynasts, The, 268

East Boston Free Press, 95

Eastport, Maine, 10

Edgett, Mrs. E. F. (Evelyn Torrey),

98

Edgett Family, 8, 12, 14, 15, 44, 45
Edinburgh Review, 256
Edwards, Edward E., 102, 311
Edwards, Jonathan, 34
Eighth Notes, 317
Election Returns, 20
Electoral Commission, 21, 22
Eliot, Charles William, 65, 87
Eliot, George, 279
Elliott, Maxine, 160
Ellis, Edward S., 26
Ellison, G. Horace, 140
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 300, 301
Emerson College, 354
Emery, William M., 217
Empire Theatre, New York, 105
Encylopaedia Americana, 160
Euclid, 53
Extra-Illustration, 223, 224

Field, Kate, 218
Field, Rachel, 324, 325
Field, Rev. Henry M., 324, 325

3 8o

Fine Arts Theatre, Boston, 189
First Violin, The, 362
Fiske, Mrs., 160, 171, 202
Fitch, Robert G., 98, 102
Fitzwilliam, N. H., 298, 299
Fontanne, Lynn, 177
Football, 88, 89, 334, 339
Ford, William A., 141
Forest Hills Cemetery, 350
Forrest, Arthur, 363
Forrest, Edwin, 201
Fothergill, Jessie, 362, 363
Fox, William, 355
Franklin, Benjamin, 107, 338
Freeman, R. Austin, 279
Frohman, Charles, 104, 201, 203
Frohman, Daniel, 105
Frost, Robert, 231
Fullerton, Elizabeth, 141
Funerals, 348

Galileo, 54, 245
Galsworthy, John, 259
Gardens, 302-304
Garneld, James A., 17, 18
Gates, Lewis E., 69, 70
Georgetown, Mass., 358
Gerry Society, 125
Gilbert and Sullivan, 118, 164, 165
Gilman, Dorothy Foster, 354
Girl of the Golden West, The, 133
Gissing, George, ix, 274-277, 308
Gladstone, William E. f 256, 257
Globe Theatre, Boston, 201
Golden Argosy, The, 26
Golden Days, 25, 26
Goodspeed, Charles E., 223
Goodwin, Nat C., 216
Grangerizing, 223-224
Grant, Gen. U. S., 18
Graphic, The, in
Gray's Elegy, 112
Green, Fred C., 358
Greensboro, N. C., 206
Guild, Courtenay, 193
Guyol, Louise H., 354

Hackett, James H., 198
Hackett, Mrs. James H., 198, 199

Index

Hackett, James K., ix, 157, 197-199.

251

Haines, Robert T., 133
Hale, Philip, 102
Hall, James Norman, 340
Hall, Mrs. Lillian A., 330-333
Hamlet, Si, 169
Hammond, Louis M., 141
Hampton Institute, 357
Hansel, Howell, 161
Hardy, Thomas, ix, 171, 265-270
Hare, John, 105
Harned, Virginia, 192
Harper's Magazine, 266, 344
Harris, William E., 355
Harrison, Frederic, 274
Harrow, England, 312
Harvard College, 4, 47-94, 308, 310
Harvard College Library, 26, 84, 96,

21 1-214, 305. 330-333* 354
Harvard Curriculum, 56-57
Harvard Professors, 62-89, 96
Harvard Theatre Collection, 96, 211-

2 14. 33-333

Harvard University Press, 216, 331
Harvey, George, 243
Hassell, George, 177
Hathawa), Edwin F., 106
Haunted Bookshop, The, 157
Haverhill, Mass., 358
Haworth, Joseph, 179
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 136, 138, 142,

145, 146

Hayes, Rutherford B., 21
Hay ward, Arthur H., 107
Hazel Kir ke, 128
Hazen, Margaret P., 358
Hazewell, Edward W., 101, 102
Heir to the Hoorah, The, 174
Hell, 32-34
Henry, O., 205-207
Henshaw, Thomas A., 298
Henty, G. A., 280
Herbert, Victor, 165
Hewitt, Oliver, 180, 191, 195, 358
Heywood, Peter, 342
Hill, Prof. Adams S., 62, 85
Hillsborough, N. B., 11, 12
Hitchcock, Raymond, 215
Hodge, William, 182

Index

Hodges, Gertrude L., 298

Holidays, 227

Hollis St. Theatre, Boston, 314

Hollywood, 325

Holmes, John, 357, 358

Holmes, Mary Jane, 43

Honolulu, 236

Hoover, Herbert, 101

Horse Cars, 7, 8

Hospitals, 5

Hotel Touraine, Boston, 363, 364

Hotel Vendome, Boston, 313

Houdin, Robert, 198, 238

Houdini, ix, 208-213

Houdmi, Mrs., 210, 212, 213

Houghton & Dutton, 152

Howard, Bronson, 372

Hoyt, Charles, 172

Hull, Forrest P., 358, 359

Humphrey, Henry B., 45, 46, 150

Hurd, Charles E., 102, 134, 135, 150

Hutchinson, A. S. M., ix, 68, 287, 288

Ibsen, Henrik, 178, 184, 195

Ideal Opera Co., 215

// Winter Comes, 289

Illustrated London News, 1 1 1

Ilsley, Henry R., 357

Indexing, 373

Ingomar, 179

Ins, 192

Irving, H. B., 59

Irving, Sir Henry, 58, 59, 105, 251

Jack and the Beanstalk, 171

Jackson, Herbert I., 145, 146, 156,

197,210,222-227,298,345
Jaffrey, N. H., 298
James, G. P. R., 260, 279
James, Henry, 63, 64, 279
James, William, 63, 64
Jans, Anneke, 12
Japan, 220

Japanese Consul, 124, 125
Jefferson, Joseph, 28
Jenks, Francis H., 97, 98
Jewett, Henry, ix, 161-169, 179-196
Jewett, Mrs. Henry, 179, 182, 185, 191-

194
Jewett, Sarah Orne, 326

John Ermine of the Yellowstone ; 198

John the Baptist, 184

Johnson, Dr. Allen, 214, 216

Johnson, Samuel, 101

Johnson, Theodore, 250

Jones, Henry Arthur, 101

Jones, Joshua H., 360

Journalism, 24-26

Jude the Obscure, 266-268

Keith's Theatre, Boston, 104, 156, 209

Kellock, Harold L., 211

Kellogg, Elijah, 287, 306

King, The, 1 1 1

King, Rc\. Henry M., 31

King, William L., 279, 298

Kingston, W. H. G., 280

Kipling, Rud\ard, 259, 262

Kip ps t 309

Kittredge, Prof. George Lyman, 62,

86-88

Kitty Foyle, 157
Knowles, James Sheridan, 42

Labor Unions, 8, 296

Ladd, Hope, 193

Ladies' Home Journal, 154

Lady or the Tiger, The, 306

Lamb, Charles, 256

Lambs Club, 129, 216

Latham, Harold S., vii

Lavine, Etta A., 174, 175

La vine, Phillip H., 174

Laune, Phoebe F., 174

Lavine, Sigmund A., 174, 355

Lawler, John, 230

Lawrence, Isabel W., 354

League of Nations, 335

Lee, Robert E., 18, 244, 245

Leonard, W. E., 291, 292

Lester, Thomas S., 355

Letters, 362-373

Lewis, Horace, 348, 349

Lewis, Sinclair, i

Librarians,

Library oi

Lincoln

Lincol

Little

Live

382 Index

Locke, William J., 366, 367

Lodger, The, 285

London, viii, 4, 5, 8, 98, 111-122, 236

London Fogs, 1 16

London Postoffices, 119

Long, John Luther, 132, 133

Longfellow, H. W., 12

Lorimer, Rev. George C., 41, 42

Lorimer, George Horace, 42

Lovell, Maria, 179

Lowell, Amy, 368

Lowell Institute, 359

Lowndes, Mrs. Belloc, ix, 284-286

Lucia di Lammermoor, 239

Lunt, Alfred, 177

Lyceum Theatre, London, 59

Lyceum Theatre, New York, 106

Lyons Mail, The, 59

Macaulay, T. B., 53, 255-257

Macbeth, 184

Macdonald, W. A., 357

Machine Wreckers, The, 184

MacKaye, Steele, 128

Macmillan Company, The, vii

Madame Butter fly , 124, 125, 132-134

Madison Square Theatre, 127-128

Magrath, Dr. George B., 50

Main Street, 320

Majestic Theatre, Boston, 210

Make-Up, Newspaper, 147, 148, 149

Malone, Dumas, 216

Man from Home, The, 182

Mandell, George S., 108-110, 214, 229,

296,312,318
Mandell, Samuel P., 108
Mann, Dorothea L., 334
Mannering, Mary, 198
Mansfield, Richard, 178, 362-364
Marden, Charles F., 359
Marlowe, Julia, 179, 251
Marryat, Capt., 280
Martinson, Lewis L., 358
Masson, William C., 177
Mathematics, 51-54
Maury, Jean West, 354
Maxwell, W. B., 279, 280
McGill University, 210
McNamara, John, 216
Measure for Measure, 33

Medford, Mass., 5

Meek, Donald, 177

Melvin, Edwin F., 106

Menotomy, 4

Merchant of Venice, The, 311, 329

Merry Wives of Windsor, 166

Methuselah, 5

Metropolitan Opera House, New

York, 201,239
Mikado, The, 167
Millerites, 2, 3
Milner, Florence, 354
Monadnock, Mount, 10, 222, 296-301
Montreal, 210, 299
Moore, Thomas, 366
Moreton, William A., 141
Morgan, Edward J. f 179
Morison, Prof. Samuel E., 308
Morley, Christopher, ix, 152-158, 352
Mother Shipton, 2, 3
Motion Pictures, 29, 104
Mount Auburn Cemetery, 232, 248
Much Ado About Nothing, 59
Munsey, Frank A., 26
Munsterberg, Prof. Hugo, 63, 64
Mutiny on the Bounty, 340, 346
My First Patient, 60

Nami Ko, 220

National Broadcasting Co., 230

Naturalization, 180

Naughty Anthony, 122

Needless War, The, 242

Nelson, Ebenezer, 102

New Grub Street, 275

New Orleans, 200

New Theatre, New York, 164

New York, 112, 114, 125-134

New York Evening Post, 149, 157

New York Sun, 328

New York Times, 355

New York World, 205

New Zealand, 344

Newnes, Ltd., George, 1 1 1

Newspaper Clippings, 330-333

Niblo's Garden, New York, 155

Nickell Magazine, 252

Nicknames, 14, 15

Nobbs, Rev. George H., 346

Nobel Prize, 321

Index

383

Noble, Edmund, 355

Nordhoff, Charles, 340

Norfolk Island, 344

Norris, Charles G., 321, 322

Norris, Frank, 70, 321

Norris, Kathleen, 322, 323

Northampton, Mass., 189

Norton, Andrews, 65

Norton, Prof. Charles Eliot, 64, 65

Noyes, Rev. Fred'k B., 357

O'Brien, Edward J., 356

O'Brien, Robert L., 101

O'Brien, Thomas, 175

Ochs, AdolphS., 216

Odell, George C. D., 155, 219, 372, 373

Oedipus Tyrannus, 215

Office-Boy Work, 43-45

Old Book Values, 144-146

Old Farmer's Almanac, 87

Old Letters, 25

Old North Church, Boston, 37

Old South Meeting House, 21, 37, 49,

107

Old State House, Boston, 37, 226
Old Wives' Tale, The, 281, 282
Operas, 239, 240
Optic, Oliver, 26, 43, 306
Othello, 171, 249
Ouida, 129
Owens, Olga, 355
Oxford University, 152, 353

Palmer, Albert M. f 363

Palmer, Alice Freeman, 63

Palmer, Prof. George H., 63, 64

Paris, 251, 324

Park St. Church, Boston, 38, 39

Parke, William, 178

Parker, H. T., 106, 310-318

Parker House, Boston, 363

Parnassus on Wheels, 157

Patents, 45

Pay ton, Corse, 159

Pearson, Edmund L., 353, 369, 370

Peer Gynt, 178

Petitcodiac River, 12

Phelps, Prof. William Lyon, ix, 66-

69, 85, 289
Philadelphia, 124, 125

Philadelphia Evening Ledger, 149, 157

Phillpotts, Eden, ix, 269-273

Pinafore, 118, 215

Pinero, Sir Arthur, 105, 192

Pitcairn Island, 340-346

Planquette, Robert, 167

Platt, Livingston, 171

Plays of the Present, 220

Players Club, 132, 194

Players of the Present, 220

Pleased to Meet You, 156

Plymouth Theatre, Boston, 180

Poe, Edgar Allan, 231

Poetry and Poets, 280, 327-329

Poole, Lucius, 223

Porter, George J., 141

Porter, William Sidney, 206

Potter, Paul M., 128

Power, C. W., 44

Powers, Wallace M., 357

Praslin Murder Case, 324-325

Piay Family, 8-13, 44, 45

Press Agents, 159, 160

Princeton University Library, 201

Private Life of Henry Alaitland, The,

276, 308
Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft,

The, 276, 277
Proctor's 5th Ave. Theatre, N. Y.,

125, 129, 134
Proof Reading, 313, 314
Psalms, The, 40, 41
Puccini, 133
Puzzle-Making, 24, 25

Radcliffe College, 354
Radio, 76-79

Radio Broadcasts, 228-246
Rand, Prof. Edward K., 50
Raymond, Ernest, 290-291
Reade, Charles, 279
Reade, Winwood, 35
Redmond, Aidan, 234
Rehan, Ada, 170
Rehearsals, 173-176
Reid, Mayne, 280
Rejected Manuscripts, 60
Religion, 27-30, 39, 40, 43
Religious Papers, 34

Index

Repertory Theatre, Boston, 151-160,

169, 179-196

Repertory Theatre Trustees, 193
Republican Party, 17-23, 238
Return of Peter Grimm, The, 130
Revolutionary War, 242, 243
Reynolds, G. W. M., 279
Rhodes Scholars, 152
Richards, Gertrude R. B., 354, 355
Richards, Laura E., 371, 372
Richards, Rosalind, 371, 372
Richards, Rev. Thomas C., 357
Richelieu, 201,249
Riddle, George, 215
Rip Van Winkle, 167, 184, 194, 195
Rivals, The, 184, 194
Roberts, Morley, 276, 308
Robertson, J. M., 35
Robin Hood, 153
Robinson Crusoe, 279
Robson, Stuart, 216
Rock Island, 111., 124
Roeder, B. F., 127, 129
Rogers, Henry M., 332
Romeo and Juliet, 29
Roosevelt, Theodore, 366, 371
Roxbury, Mass., i, 8, 252
Roxbury Latin School, 154
Royce, Prof. Josiah, 64
Ruskin, John, 256
Russell, Sol Smith, 201, 217
Russia, 357

St. John's Wood, 115
St. Louis, 123, 124
St. Paul's Cathedral, 78, 79
Sanborn, Alvan F., 112
Sanborn, Frank B., 371
Santayana, George, 64
Sargent, George H., 106, 353
Saturday Review of Literature, 156
Scarlet Letter, The, 145, 146
Schriftgiesser, Karl, 308, 357, 358
Scilly Isles, 113
Scott, Sir Walter, 44
Second Adventists, 2, 3, 344
Secret Societies, 93
Sedgwick, Ellery, 160, 308, 340
Seymour, Mrs. L. E., 200
Seymour, William, 200-204, 2 1 7

Seymour, Mrs. William, 203, 204
Seymour Theatre Collection, 200, 204
Shakspeare, William, 33, 83, 87, 88,

106, 165, 269, 316

Shakspeare-Bacon Controversy, 241
Shapiro, Dr. Harry L., 344
Shaw, George Bernard, 184, 187, 259,

362

Shaw, Mary, 2 1 7

Shaw, Robert Gould, 84, 330-333
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 236
Sheridan, Thomas, 236
Shorter, Clement K., 1 1 1
Siege of Berlin, 60
Siege of Paris, 60
Sinclair, Upton, 365, 366
Skinner, Otis, 166
Slings and Arrows, 221
Smith, James Fletcher, 354
Smith, James Walter, 47, 48, 50, 111,

112, 221, 354

Smith, Mrs. James Walter, 112
Smith, Minna Caroline, 102
Smith, Dr. Payson, 193
Somemllc, Mass , 5, 50
Sothcrn, E. H., 251 , 332
Sousa, John Philip, 160
South Duxbury, Mass., 202
South Sea Islands, 280, 340-346
Southampton, Eng., 115
Southwoith, Mrs E. D. E N , 43
Sphere, The, 1 1 1
Spiritualism, 34, 209
Sports, 88-92, 337, 339
Spy Pond, Arlington, 285
Stage Managing, 173, 175
Starkey, Marion L., 357
Starr, Frances, 177, 363, 364
Stem, Gertrude, 251
Steiner, Cecilia, 212
Stephenson, George E., 231
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 154, 280
Stockton, Frank R., 26, 306
Stoke Poges, 112
Stoyle, Lewis E., 358
Strand Magazine, 1 1 1
Sturtevant, Edward L., 188, 193
Sunday Schools, 30, 32, 39
Supers, 58, 59
Swedenborg, Emanuel, 63

Index

385

Sweet Singer of Michigan, 310, 328
Swiss Family Robinson, 279
Symphony Hall, Boston, 209

Tahiti, 340, 346

Taming of the Shrew, The, 169

Tarkington, Booth, ix, 319, 320

Tarkington, Mrs. Booth, fig, 320

Taylor, Dwight, 221

Terry, Ellen, 59, 105, 251

Teschemacher, P. E., 45

Tess of the D'Urbervilles, 171, 267

Thackeray, W. M., 199, 252, 256

Theatre Guild. 177

Thompson, E. Bigelow, 78

Thompson's Spa, Boston, 226

Thoreau, H. D., 301

Thunder on the Left, 157

Timor, 342

To no Bun gay, 309

Torrey, Evelyn (Mrs E. F. Edgett),98

Tourtellot, Arthur B., 236, 335

Tracy, Frank B., 101

Translating, 60

Traubel, Hoi ace, 305

Tiee, H. Becibohm, 81, 105

Tremont Temple, Boston, 36-38, 41,

42
Fremont Theatre, Boston, 58, 59, 130,

132, 198, 201
Trilby, 128

Trinity Church, N. Y., 12
Trip to Chinatown, A, 172
Trollope, Anthony, ix, 258, 278
Trowbridge, J. T., 306, 307
Tro),N H., 298, 299
Tufts College, 357
Tutoring, 55, 56
Twelfth Night, 170
Type- writer Copying, 44, 45

Under Two Flags, 128, 129

Vacations, 277-283
Van Wyck, Robert A., 125
Vaudeville, 104
Veiller, Bayard, 295, 314
Verne, Jules, 279
Vincent, Mrs. J. R., 28, 218
Virginia, 228, 229

WBET, 76-77

WBZ, 77, 228-246

WNAC, 228-246

Walker, Frances M., 141

Wallace, Gen. Lew, 146

Warren, William, 28, 218, 247, 249

Wars, 241-245

Warshauer, Charles S., 226

Washington, D. C., 17, 216

Washington Post, 357

We the Accused, 290, 291

Weiss, Eh rich (Houdim), 212

Weiss, Rabbi Mayer Samuel, 212

Weld Hall, Cambridge, 50

Wellesley College, 4, 65, 354

Wells, H. G., 259, 308-310

Wendell, Barrett, 62, 82, 85

Wendell, E\ert Jansen, 83, 84, 332,

333

Wendell, Jacob, 84
West Point Acadeim , 244
IT here the Blue Begins, 157
Whitcomb, John D., 141
White Mountains, 10, 297, 311
Whitman, Walt, 305
Whittier, Florence E., 358
Wild Duck, The, 185, 195
Wiley, Franklin B., 15
Wilkins, Mai> .,326
Willard, Catherine, 187
Willard. Edward S., 332
Williams, James T., Jr , 101
Wilson, Francis, 184, 194, 195
Wilson, George W., 28, 217-250
Wilson, John H , 217, 359
Wilson, Woodrow, 243
Winter, William, 127
Wood, Mrs. Henry, 279
World War, 2 \z
Wyndham, Charles, 105

Vale University, 66-68
Yellow Day, 17
Yorkshire, 44
You Never Can Tell, 184
Young, Fred, 106
Young, Mary, 162, 171

Zaza, 122
Zola, Emile, 70